When the impossibility of replacing a person is realized, it allows the responsibility which a man has for his existence and its continuance to appear in all its magnitude. A man who becomes conscious of the responsibility he bears toward a human being who affectionately waits for him will never be able to throw away his life."
Viktor E. Frankl — Man's Search for Meaning
————————
[From the logs of the Astral Express. The following exchange occurred one hour before the confrontation that would decide Belobog's fate.]
[Astral Express Group Chat]
Xander: Himeko, Welt, Pom-Pom - we're moving ahead to engage Cocolia at Everwinter Hill within the hour. Intelligence suggests she's merged with Jarilo-VI's Stellaron. The plan is to neutralize her and deploy a space anchor. If you can get to us and seal it, it might be enough to make the Legion break off their assault.
A pause. Then another message.
Xander: I need to say something before we go. What you three have done, holding back an entire armada… You're fighting for a world that isn't yours, with no promise of reward or glory. Just quiet, selfless courage. It's a purity of purpose I'm not sure I've ever really known. It makes this Express badge feel impossibly heavy. In my whole life, I've never felt more honored, or more unworthy, than I do right now. Thank you for letting me stand with you.
Himeko: Xander, the badge isn't an award for being worthy. Akivili's path is formed by the steps we take, not by how qualified we are to take them. You are taking those steps right now in Belobog, and that makes them just as important as our fight in orbit. That's all that's ever mattered. Don't diminish your part of the journey.
Xander: I… thank you, Himeko. That means more than you know. And because I trust you all completely, I have to ask the impossible. If things go sideways—can you deploy the Heavenly Flare? If I send a message with just a period—"."—that's the signal. Target my phone's coordinates. I know what I'm asking. To divert fire and attention when you have none to spare.
Welt: Legion's formation is predictable. Creating a window will not be an issue. You'll have your support. Focus on your own battle.
Himeko: What Mr. Yang said. Don't underestimate the old guard, Xander. You just stay alive long enough to call for it. We'll handle the rest.
March 7th: No 'if's! We're all coming back from this! I've already got the perfect spot picked out for our victory photo!
Xander: … Thank you. See you on the other side.
The Heavenly Flare would indeed answer his call, a sun born from the Astral Express, plunging into the heart of Everwinter Hill's frozen expanse.
But Cocolia would not be the only one standing in its blast radius.
————————
Lyndon Skott followed three paces behind Aventurine through the gleaming corridors of Pier Point, his fresh P17 credentials burning a hole in his pocket like stolen credits.
The promotion had lasted exactly four hours before the smugness died. Four hours of thinking he'd finally clawed his way onto the ladder's first real rung. Four hours before one of the damn Ten Stonehearts appeared at the space station port to collect him personally, that peacock-feather earring catching the artificial light like some cosmic joke.
The Strategic Investment Department's floor stretched ahead, all polished chrome and impossible architecture. Through the transparent walls, Pier Point's skyline sprawled in every direction—a monument to wealth so vast it made planetary economies look like pocket change. Ships docked and departed from ports that jutted like metallic fingers, each one processing more credits in a day than Skott had seen in his entire career.
He'd worked his ass off on that unremarkable backwater planet. Networked. Leveraged. Backstabbed three colleagues and tanked two rival projects just to secure the transfer recommendation. The IPC was power incarnate, and power was all that mattered. Not the Amber Lord's construction project at the edge of the cosmos, not the preservation of civilization—just the pure, intoxicating hierarchy that determined your worth across the entire universe.
Aventurine moved like he owned the very light particles in the air, his stride a masterpiece of unhurried purpose. People parted for him. A secretary actually fumbled her data pad when he flashed her a smile.
"That desperate for attention?" Skott muttered under his breath.
"Jealousy's a bad look, my friend." Aventurine didn't even glance back, his voice smooth as poured liquor. "Though I suppose it can't be helped."
The smug bastard.
The corridor split around a massive holographic display showing real-time market fluctuations from seventeen different star systems. Aventurine paused to study it, hands in his pockets, completely at ease while the cosmos's financial heartbeat pulsed before him.
Skott noticed the Marketing Development Department employees rushing past. Not the usual corporate hurry—this was genuine panic, barely concealed beneath professional masks. A woman with a bleeding nose rushed by clutching a tablet. Two men argued in heated whispers near a doorway.
"Something wrong with your department?" Skott asked.
"Oh, that?" Aventurine didn't look away from the display, waving one gloved hand dismissively. "Just some unruly individuals who managed to slip past security. Nothing to worry about. It's being handled."
"Individuals, plural?"
"Mmm." Aventurine tilted his head, tracking a pattern in the numbers only he could see. "They're causing a bit of chaos at the moment, but I'm told the situation is under control."
His casual charisma, the way he framed what was clearly a security breach as mere background noise, made Skott's teeth ache. Everything about him screamed "main character"—the posture, the pretense, the damn sunglasses worn indoors. Skott had heard the P13 grunts during break room gossip, throwing around words like "aura" when they talked about people like this. A bunch of little fuckers who looked at a peacock and saw a phoenix.
What kind of idiot sees a man who wears sunglasses indoors and thinks, 'Now there's someone of substance'?
Aventurine turned from the display, that infuriating smile still in place. "Shall we?"
They continued down the corridor. More employees rushed past. Someone shouted into a communicator about lockdown protocols. The air tasted of expensive cologne and fear.
"Alright, I'll bite," Skott said. "Why am I here? A Stoneheart doesn't personally escort a P17 without a reason."
Aventurine looked at him sideways. The playful mask didn't drop, but the glitter in his eyes sharpened. "You're all about climbing the ladder, aren't you, Skott? No friends, no enemies. Only prey." He chuckled. "I read your file. Your family motto is delightfully transactional."
Heat crept up Skott's neck. "It's practical."
"It is," Aventurine agreed. "But a word of advice for a fellow gambler: when you're at a table with bigger players, you watch the cards and keep your mouth shut. Questioning the dealer is a quick way to get yourself thrown out of the casino."
The condescension landed like a physical blow. "And you're the dealer here?"
Aventurine laughed, a rich sound bouncing off the chrome walls. "Me? Oh no. I'm the one betting the entire house on a single hand." He flipped a coin from his pocket, catching it on his knuckles. "I find high-leverage plays with exhilarating risk, and I push all my chips in. Because that, my friend, is where the real returns are."
The elevator arrived. As the doors slid open, Aventurine stepped inside, waiting. "The difference between you and I, Skott," he said, his smirk now knife-sharp, "is that when I gamble..." He flipped the coin one last time. "I don't lose."
The casual finality of it, the absolute absence of doubt, made Skott's blood boil with a feeling he couldn't name. It was half rage, half... awe. This guy is so damn cool. Wait. No, he's not!
He forced himself to maintain composure. Getting angry at a P45 was career suicide.
The elevator rose. Numbers climbed on the display. Skott watched them tick upward, each digit representing another layer of power he'd never touched.
"I'm told," Aventurine said, his tone shifting to business, "that you're headed for the Xianzhou Luofu. Something about a project in Aurum Alley."
Skott scoffed. "Does the IPC not believe in privacy?"
"Privacy is a currency, and you haven't earned enough to afford it." Aventurine's reflection in the polished doors showed that easy grin. "There's no hidden thing to any superior in the IPC hierarchy. By being a rank above, we can easily request information on employees below our rank to a certain extent." He turned slightly. "So. Spill. What's your play?"
Skott hesitated, then figured there was no point in hiding it. "Aurum Alley—market district on the Luofu. I consider it an opportunity for the IPC to begin gaining more influence within the starship and, long-term if all goes well, stake a more important power vector over the Xianzhou Alliance."
Aventurine mulled this over, head tilted. The coin appeared between his fingers again, flipping lazily. "Bold," he mused. "I like bold. But we can talk strategy later." He caught the coin. "For now, just know that I have a... vested interest in the Luofu. I need an ear on the ground, someone who isn't a department head with a stick lodged in their corporate-approved posterior. You feed me intel, I drop a good word for you in the right places. A simple transaction."
"Why?" The question came out sharper than Skott intended. "Why are you so interested? For someone of your stature, this is small potatoes."
Aventurine looked at him then, and Skott felt his spine lock up. The rose-tinted glasses slipped just slightly, revealing eyes that were wrong somehow. Magenta and cyan circles for irises, both with pupils that were vertical slits like a predator's.
"I like keeping an eye on the ground in multiple places." Aventurine's voice was velvet over steel. "Not from department heads who have poles stuck up their asses and can't see past their egos, but from people who are more on the ground dealing with the locals."
Skott swallowed. "Any reason why the Luofu specifically?"
Aventurine's smile showed too much teeth. "I have it on good record there might be some interesting happenings. Nothing guaranteed, but I want to be in on the scoop. Know firsthand from someone at the source if something does happen." He paused, letting that sink in. "And in exchange, I'd be willing to make a comment here and there to help you climb."
This guy is so cool—
Skott blinked, realizing where his thoughts led. DAMN HIM!
But he was already nodding, words tumbling out. "I... yeah. That works."
"Glad to have come to an agreement." Aventurine straightened his collar as the elevator slowed. Then, almost as an afterthought, voice light and airy: "Oh, and if you breathe a word of this arrangement to anyone, I'll see to it you spend the rest of your days contemplating your mistakes in The Shackling Prison. Buckle up, buttercup."
The threat landed like ice water. By the time Skott processed it—The Shackling Prison, the Xianzhou's nightmare jail for the most dangerous criminals in the Alliance—the elevator doors were opening.
Aventurine stepped out, voice bright and theatrical: "Topaz! My dearest Topaz! Work's shining star, the apple of my—"
A collective groan rose from every employee on the Strategic Investment Department floor.
An even louder groan—distinctly female and dripping with murderous intent—cut through the noise.
A small creature peeked over a cubicle wall. Skott recognized it immediately: a Warp Trotter, the interdimensional creature that was both absurdly rare and impossibly adorable. This one had a red bowtie on its back and gold trim around its body. It took one look at Aventurine and promptly ducked back into hiding with a terrified squeak.
Aventurine waded through the crowd like a celebrity at a funeral—his funeral, specifically, if the looks were anything to go by. Skott noticed immediately that everyone regarded him with the kind of loathing usually reserved for tax auditors and identity thieves.
"Your little gambit at Iymanika cost us a month to unfuck!" A man stepped into Aventurine's path, face crimson.
"Dreadfully sorry about that." Aventurine didn't even slow down. "I'll see your team compensated, naturally."
"I don't want your money!" The man's voice cracked with fury. "Someone needs to knock you down a few pegs!"
Aventurine sighed like a parent dealing with a tantrum, pulled out his phone, and tapped it twice. The man's device chimed. He glanced down.
All the color drained from his face.
A coworker peered over his shoulder and actually stumbled backward. "That's... that's more than I'll make in my entire career."
Aventurine pocketed his phone, smile serene. "Still angry?"
"...I still hate you."
Aventurine laughed—genuine, delighted—and kept walking. Skott followed, brain doing gymnastics. How much did he just—
The cubicle appeared like an archaeological dig site. Behind mountains of actual paper—Skott hadn't seen physical documents in years—sat a woman who looked like she'd been designed by committee to break hearts and quarterly projections with a holographic display floating in front of her.
Silver-white hair with hints of red. Light blue eyes currently murdering a holographic spreadsheet. The Strategic Investment Department uniform, tailored into something that managed to be both professional and devastating.
Skott's breath caught. She was stunning.
The Warp Trotter—Numby, if he remembered the gossip correctly—trembled behind her legs—Amber Lord be damned, what legs—staring at Aventurine with what could only be described as fear.
"Topaz!" Aventurine spread his arms wide, grin luminous. "My darling! My muse! How the stars have wept in your absence!"
Is that his girlfriend? Skott's chest tightened. HOW DOES THIS PEACOCK BASTARD KEEP WINNING?
Topaz didn't look up from her work. "Go die in a fucking ditch and never come back, Aventurine."
Yes. YES. Destroy him!
Aventurine clutched his chest, staggering like he'd been shot. "Such cruelty! And here I thought we were friends—"
"You have five minutes before I develop a stress-induced aneurysm that medical will bill directly to your department." Topaz's fingers never stopped moving. "Every second you're in my peripheral vision actively shortens my lifespan. Start talking or start walking. Preferably the latter."
I'm a bastard, but even I'm not that savage. Skott heard himself speak before his brain caught up. "Damn, that's cold."
Topaz's gaze locked onto him like a targeting laser acquiring a new victim.
Every survival instinct Skott possessed started screaming. Abort. ABORT.
"Easy on the fresh meat." Aventurine sounded genuinely entertained. "He's with me."
Topaz's fingers blurred across the holographic keyboard. A profile materialized in midair, and Skott watched his entire life get dissected in real-time.
"P17." Her tone suggested she'd found something distasteful on the bottom of her shoe. "What's he to you?"
"A small wager." Aventurine dropped into a chair uninvited, examining the cubicle like he was considering buying it. "Keeping an ear to the ground on the Luofu. He'll be stationed there." He glanced around. "Why the downgrade? Last time you had an office with a view."
A small wager. The phrase hit like a slap. He threatened me with the Shackling Prison over a 'small wager'?
"Climbing the ladder type?" Topaz asked, not looking away from her work.
"Mmm." Aventurine flipped a coin lazily.
Skott wanted the floor to open up and swallow him. This was, without question, the most humiliating moment of his professional life.
"Sit, newbie." Topaz's voice softened by half a degree—from 'arctic' to merely 'cold.' "I'm apologizing for him, though it physically pains me to do so."
Skott sat. I hate both of you. So much.
Topaz gestured at the document fortress surrounding her workspace. "To answer your question—I got a whole project dropped on my head out of nowhere. Had to recover some archaic documents which were on paper for some damn reason. More practical to use a cubicle here than haul this mess back to my office."
"Why not summon a grunt to play pack mule?" Aventurine examined his coins with idle interest.
"Because I don't waste time watching idiots fumble documents that predate their grandparents." Her typing never slowed. "The margin for error with lower-level employees on a project this sensitive is unacceptable. They'd somehow lose half the files and apologize with a shrug."
Numby grunted in fierce agreement, as if grunts were indeed dumb as bricks.
"Fair enough." Aventurine spun lazily in his chair, still flipping the coin. "Care to share what's got you buried in dead trees?"
"Aventurine..." Her tone carried a warning sharp enough to cut.
"Come on, you don't have to spill everything. It's just strange seeing you this focused. Usually you're terrorizing department heads, not doing archaeology."
Topaz stayed silent for a moment, fingers hovering over the keyboard.
The commotion outside continued—people rushing past, voices raised in panic, the general chaos from Marketing Development bleeding into Strategic Investment like a contagion. Skott cleared his throat. "Um... what's exactly going on—"
"Not now, newbie." Aventurine didn't even glance at him.
Topaz scoffed. "You haven't told him yet?"
Aventurine shrugged, hands spread in mock innocence. "What's he going to do about it? Knowledge just adds stress." He gestured at Skott. "Look at him—he's already been through every emotion on the spectrum today." A pause. "Skott, seriously, work on your poker face. This is embarrassing."
"Point taken, but still don't you think—"
"Ah ah ah, don't deviate the conversation."
Topaz clicked her tongue in irritation and pulled up a holographic display. An icy planet appeared, rotating slowly in midair. "The Rigel family deployed a massive cargo shipment from Pier Point. Aid supplies. Enough to feed an entire city and then some."
Aventurine leaned forward, interest visibly piqued. "The Rigels? They're swimming in money, sure, but charity isn't their style. Most prototypical corporate family—deep pockets, deeper connections, but nothing remarkable in the grand scheme." He frowned. "Only standout member is Asta Rigel. Last I heard, she was babysitting a Genius Society member's space station orbiting the Blue. What's this about? And what does it have to do with you?"
Topaz tapped the frozen planet. "That's the destination. Jarilo-VI." She pulled up additional files, historical records that looked older than most civilizations. "The planet was a hub centuries ago. There was a faction of the Architects that played an important role in founding cities there. Very unremarkable, honestly. Nothing noteworthy." She paused, and something in her expression darkened. "But around 700 years ago, the IPC loaned funds to the Architects for disaster recovery. The debt was to be repaid in 280 years. However, no more than 100 years after the loan, a Stellaron somehow landed on the planet and turned the whole thing into a tundra. We lost contact."
Both Aventurine and Skott winced at the mention of Stellaron.
"Ouch." Aventurine grimaced. "What circle of hell did you piss off to get assigned to a dead planet?"
Numby launched itself at Aventurine's face like a furry missile with a spin, connecting with a resounding thud that sent him crashing backward in his chair.
"Ow," he said flatly from the floor.
"I did not piss anyone off, you walking disaster." Topaz's voice could have flash-frozen hydrogen. "The Corporation got wind of the Rigel family's movements. I've been tasked to confirm if Belobog—the main stronghold on Jarilo-VI—still stands. The department suspects it does, given this whole supply operation." She pulled up financial records that made Skott's eyes water. "Due to interest and time lapse, the debt has already snowballed into an astronomical amount. I've been tasked to collect."
Aventurine stood as if nothing had happened, returned his chair to its proper position, and sat again. The coin reappeared between his fingers. "Uh-huh. Has your department contacted the Rigels?"
"They offered no comment beyond a spokesperson claiming it was likely a direct request from Asta Rigel herself." Topaz's fingers resumed their dance across the keyboard. "She's really favored by #83, so it definitely raises questions."
"Huh." Aventurine caught the coin mid-flip. "Speak of the devil. Any theories?"
"No." She pulled up communication logs—rows of failed connection attempts. "We've tried making contact with Jarilo-VI, but it's as if communications are completely blocked. The Star Rail is just dead there. No way to reach them."
Aventurine frowned, genuinely puzzled for the first time since Skott had met him. "That's the domain of the Astral Express, is it not? Perhaps they have an idea as to what happened—"
A sound split the cosmos.
Skott's entire body locked up. The noise wasn't heard so much as felt—a hammer striking an anvil the size of a solar system, resonating through dimensions that human senses weren't designed to perceive. It rattled his bones. Shook his teeth. Made his vision blur at the edges.
Aventurine froze mid-sentence, coin suspended in the air.
Topaz's fingers stopped moving.
Numby went perfectly still.
Every person on Pier Point felt it simultaneously. Across the entire IPC network, across every planet and station and ship bearing their logo, that cosmic hammer-strike reverberated through reality itself.
Qlipoth had marked the beginning of a new Amber Era.
A beat passed.
Two.
Then the entire Strategic Investment Department fucking exploded.
"ALL FOR THE AMBER LORD!"
The roar came from everywhere at once. People surged from their cubicles, arms raised, voices lifted in spontaneous jubilation. Champagne corks popped like gunfire. Someone started blasting music through the building's sound system—triumphant horns and drums that made Skott's chest vibrate with each beat.
Communications networks lit up like fireworks. Skott's own device buzzed frantically with messages from every group chat he'd ever joined, some he didn't even remember being part of. Social media feeds scrolled past faster than he could read, a deluge of celebration and religious fervor. The entire IPC network had ignited in collective ecstasy.
Aventurine and Topaz's phones chimed simultaneously—a specific tone, different from the chaos around them.
They both looked at their screens.
Then went completely still.
Aventurine's expression—always so controlled, so carefully theatrical—cracked into genuine shock. His mouth opened slightly.
Topaz stared at her phone like it had just sprouted legs and started dancing.
They looked at each other, sharing a moment of pure, unfiltered disbelief.
Then Aventurine slowly turned to Skott, moving like someone in a dream. Without a word, he angled his phone screen so Skott could see.
The Ten Stonehearts group chat—one of the most exclusive, most secretive communication channel in the entire IPC—was visible. At the top, a name that made Skott's breath catch: DIAMOND.
The messages were there, undeniable:
LET'S.
FUCKING.
GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO.
Followed by an absolute barrage of sticker images—celebration emojis, fireworks, and gifs, the Amber Lord's symbol in increasingly ridiculous variations, the kind of casual chaos you'd expect from teenagers on a private forum, not from the leader of the Ten Stonehearts.
Skott's jaw dropped.
Aventurine nodded slowly, as if Skott's reaction confirmed he wasn't hallucinating. "Yeah," he said quietly. "That's... that's actually happening."
A holographic display materialized next to Topaz's workspace, summoned automatically by emergency protocols. The galaxy map zoomed to a specific system, where a blinking red dot pulsed over Jarilo-VI's coordinates like a cosmic heartbeat.
Alarm notifications scrolled past in urgent red text:
AEON ACTIVITY DETECTED
SOURCE: QLIPOTH THE PRESERVATION
IMPACT SITE: JARILO-VI SYSTEM
AMBER ERA 2158 COMMENCED
Topaz stared at the display. Then at Aventurine. Then back at the display, as if the information might rearrange itself into something that made more sense.
Aventurine's phone chimed again—a different tone, private message. He glanced at it and stood immediately, all pretense of casual amusement evaporating. "I need to go. Something came up."
"Same." Topaz was already pulling up new files, her movements sharp and laser-focused. "I need to continue working."
Aventurine barely made it two steps before Skott found his voice. "What am I supposed to do?"
Aventurine paused mid-stride, turning back. For a moment he looked genuinely confused, as if he'd completely forgotten Skott existed. "Oh. Um..." He looked at Topaz with something approaching sheepishness. "Mind lending some tasks to the newbie?"
"Aventurine, don't you dare—!"
"I'll be in contact!" Aventurine was already moving, weaving through the celebrating crowd with practiced ease. He vanished around a corner, that peacock earring catching the light one final time like a middle finger to responsibility.
Skott slowly turned back to Topaz.
She sat frozen, staring at the empty space where Aventurine had been. Her lips moved silently. He caught fragments of her whispered mantra: "Don't kill him... don't kill him... don't kill him... don't fucking kill him..."
The chant continued for a full minute. Each iteration brought increasingly creative variations of violence—things involving airlocks, being spaced without a suit, industrial debt collectors, and what sounded suspiciously like feeding someone to a loan shark (the literal kind, apparently they existed somewhere).
The things she's describing would make a Stellaron Hunter wince.
Finally, she grabbed Numby and hugged the Warp Trotter tight against her chest, inhaling deeply. Skott watched the act, judging it. A therapeutic support animal, he supposed, was the charitable interpretation. But the sheer need in the gesture felt closer to an addict getting a fix. Her shoulders gradually relaxed. The murderous glint in her eyes faded from 'premeditated homicide' to 'severe workplace grievance.'
"Skott, right?" She stood, gathering several documents with mechanical efficiency. "Come with me. Seems I'll need help grabbing some document records on Jarilo-VI."
Skott nodded, following her out of the cubicle. These past thirty minutes have been the most insane of my life.
Well. Excluding just one event.
The celebration continued around them. People danced. Someone had started an impromptu drinking game. A P35 supervisor was crying tears of joy while his team hoisted him onto their shoulders, chanting the Amber Lord's praises.
But Skott still saw others rushing through the chaos, completely unbothered by the cosmic announcement. They moved with grim purpose, communicators pressed to their ears, faces tight with stress.
"Miss Topaz." He caught up to her as they entered a quieter corridor. "Can you tell me what's actually going on in Pier Point? All that rushing before this happened?"
Topaz stopped. Looked at him with an expression that suggested she was calculating whether he was worth the breath it would take to explain. Then she pointed to a wall on their left.
Skott turned.
A massive display covered the entire surface—the IPC's most wanted list. Faces stared out at him, each one accompanied by a bounty number that made his vision swim. He recognized some immediately: pirates who'd raided corporate shipments, terrorists who'd bombed IPC facilities, traitors who'd sold secrets to rival organizations.
His gaze drifted down the list as Topaz spoke.
"Apparently two Stellaron Hunters were spotted here on Pier Point." Her voice was carefully neutral, the kind of professional detachment you developed after too many corporate disasters. "Departments are both scrambling to figure out how the hell they managed to get here unnoticed and trying to pull reports out of their asses to justify why it wasn't their fault. Nobody wants to be the one holding the bag when leadership starts looking for heads to roll." She gestured at the wall. "Pearl and Agate from the Ten Stonehearts are already on the case."
Skott scanned the faces. Found them quickly—the Stellaron Hunters had their own section, marked with special warning symbols and threat assessments.
KAFKA - Bounty: 10,899,000,000 Credits
SAM - Bounty: 9,723,000,000 Credits
BLADE - Bounty: 8,130,000,000 Credits
SILVER WOLF - Bounty: 5,100,000,000 Credits
And below them, separated by additional warning markers and security clearance tags:
[CLASSIFIED] - Bounty: CLASSIFIED
The photo was partially corrupted, as if something had actively interfered with the image capture during processing. But Skott could make out enough: a figure in dark tactical gear, face obscured by a grotesque mechanical mask that resembled a human skull fused with cybernetics. Dead gold lenses where eyes should be.
His mouth went dry.
"Any particular reason for your question?" Topaz was already walking again, her pace brisk and no-nonsense. "We're losing time—"
She stopped. Turned back.
Skott hadn't moved. He stood perfectly still, staring at that one photograph, unable to tear his eyes away even as his instincts screamed at him to look anywhere else.
"Ah. Him." Topaz's voice carried a strange weight, something between respect and revulsion. "Word of advice? Don't bring up his name in big circles. Amber Lord knows how much money he's cost entire departments." She paused, and her expression darkened. "Obsidian and Sugilite in particular would likely cut your throat if you mention him anywhere near them."
Skott felt cold sweat forming on his neck, but his mouth—his stupid, traitorous mouth—decided to engage its own disastrous protocol before his brain could stop it. He pointed a shaky finger at Kafka's image. "Wait, go back. That Kafka... Ten billion credits?" He tried for a casual smirk, the kind of bravado that had gotten him through a dozen uncomfortable corporate situations. "I mean, she's hot, but is she ten billion credits hot?"
Topaz stopped dead in her tracks.
She turned and gave him a look of such profound, withering disgust that he felt his insides shrivel like fruit left in a vacuum. It was the kind of look that made him reconsider every life choice that had led to this exact moment.
"You're a pig, Skott."
She turned and marched toward the archives without another word, her footsteps sharp and final against the corridor floor.
Nice one, idiot. Now the hot, powerful lady thinks you're a creep. Skott hurried to catch up, face burning with humiliation worse than any dressing-down from a superior officer.
Good, he thought as he followed her retreating figure. Let her think I'm just another lecherous fool. Better that than the alternative.
Because as he moved, the image of that masked Hunter remained burned into his mind like a brand. Not from the wanted poster.
————————
Pandemonium. Chaos. And then, darkness.
He was a P2 grunt back then, running for his life through the skeletal remains of a city on some forgotten planet under IPC quarantine. The alley was a tomb, swallowing what little ambient light bled from the scorched sky. The gloom was so thick it felt like ink, a physical presence that muffled sound and clung to his skin. Survival was a negotiation with shadows.
He'd ducked in here, lungs burning, trying to make sense of the chaos. The official story was sanitized corporate speak: a faction with alleged ties to the Antimatter Legion had planned a terrorist attack. Swift IPC response. Threat neutralized. Move along, citizens.
The actual story? Skott had been there. He knew better.
Three members of the Ten Stonehearts had led the operation personally. Three. And all three had failed.
It was the sounds he registered first, cutting through the near-total blackness: wet, desperate choking. His eyes, straining to adjust, could barely make out two shapes against a deeper black. One tall and imposing. The other was held aloft, kicking weakly. In the oppressive dark, Skott's eyes latched onto the only thing that caught a stray photon: a glint of polished metal from an ornate headpiece—a crown. From that single point of reference, his mind pieced together the rest of the silhouette: the sharp, unmistakable points of elf-like ears and the dark cascade of what could only be long, deep red hair. He recognized the expensive cut of the tactical wear, even in silhouette. High-ranking.
She was suspended in the air by a single hand wrapped around her throat. Held like a misbehaving cat.
The figure holding her stood with its back to him. A dark overcoat seemed to absorb the very concept of light, making its silhouette an absolute void. And pressed against its leg was another shape, a smaller silhouette that barely reached the larger one's waist, clinging to the fabric. Skott's mind supplied a possibility, a question more than a fact: a child? He couldn't be sure. It was just a blur of motion against a larger darkness.
"We'll… find you..." It wasn't a plea, but a statement of fact dragged from a crushed throat, defiance overriding agony.
The tall figure offered no verbal response. Instead, the hand around her neck simply tightened. The gesture was a silent, brutal refutation—a simple display of absolute power that cut off her defiance with a wet, choked sound.
It was then that another noise sliced through the dark, so quiet Skott barely registered it at first. A soft, pleading murmur from the small silhouette clinging to the man's leg. He couldn't make out the words, but it seemed to be begging…? Was it asking him to stop?
Skott stumbled backward, his boot kicking a loose piece of debris. The sound echoed in the suffocating silence like a gunshot.
The tall figure's head turned.
Not its body. Just its head. A slow, unnatural rotation that made Skott's stomach lurch, every vertebra screaming in protest.
The mask snagged a wisp of light from the alley's mouth, a momentary glint—a grotesque, elongated fusion of skull and machine, with dead gold lenses where eyes should be. No expression. No humanity. Just the blank, passive observation of a security camera that had already judged him a threat.
And then it was in front of him.
No movement. No transition. No blur of motion. It was simply there, like reality had edited out the frames between.
A blade pressed against Skott's throat, drawing a thin line of blood. Cold. Precise.
A voice emerged from the mask, distorted by a faulty modulator. Ragged. Deep. Wrong.
"Name."
"L-Lyndon Skott," he'd whispered, certain he was about to die.
The silence stretched, thin and sharp as the blade at his throat. He could hear his own heartbeat thundering in his ears, a frantic drum against the vast quiet. Behind the masked figure, the woman with the crown had stopped struggling. She hung limp in that iron grip, utterly defeated.
And then, a sound that would haunt every nightmare afterward: a short, grating chuckle. Like grinding gears and broken static trying to imitate joy.
The blade lifted slightly. The voice came again, the distorted rasp dropping to something quiet, something that sounded less like a threat and more like a terrible piece of wisdom being shared.
"You and Elio need to count yourselves lucky I turned the lights out."
"What—" Skott managed.
The world went dark.
————————
When Skott woke up hours later, the alley was empty. No body. No evidence. Just him, alive, with a thin scar across his throat and a memory that felt more like a nightmare than reality.
He never reported it. Never spoke of it. What would he even say?
It wasn't until weeks later, after his transfer had been processed and he'd climbed to P7, that he'd seen her face again. In a classified briefing document he wasn't supposed to have access to but had acquired through... creative channels.
The woman from the alley.
Obsidian. One of the Ten Stonehearts. Known for predatory behavior, sadistic tendencies, and what the psychological profile delicately termed "sanguinary inclinations." The kind of operative they sent when they needed someone who enjoyed the work a little too much.
That woman—that absolute monster by reputation—had looked like a helpless kitten in that masked figure's grip.
And the story? Buried. Completely. Not a whisper made it to public networks. Not a hint in internal gossip channels. The attack, the deployment of three Stonehearts, their failure—all of it scrubbed from official records and replaced with the sanitized terrorist plot narrative.
Because if word got out that three members of Diamond's elite forces—Diamond, an Emanator of the Preservation himself—had failed to secure a single target? The embarrassment would be catastrophic. The IPC's Strategic Investment Department reputation of invincibility would crack.
So they buried it.
And Skott, smart enough to recognize when survival meant silence, had kept his mouth shut. Climbed the ladder. Moved forward.
————————
"Skott! Are you coming or are you going to stand there drooling all day?" Topaz's voice snapped him back to reality.
"Coming!" he yelped, jogging to catch up, legs feeling weaker than they should.
If anyone here discovered he'd witnessed a Stoneheart's humiliation… his career would be the least of his concerns.
Aventurine's threat about the Shackling Prison suddenly sounded like a generous early retirement plan.
He followed her into the archives, the celebratory roar of Pier Point fading behind them like distant thunder. The career ladder he'd been so obsessed with climbing suddenly felt less like a path to power and more like a tightrope stretched over an abyss. He had always thought himself a wolf learning to hunt bigger game. Now, he realized he was just a different kind of prey, caught between predators he couldn't even comprehend.
His train of thought was derailed by the quiet, authoritative chime of her phone. Topaz stopped, answering it with practiced efficiency.
"Lady Bonajade," she said, her voice crisp. She listened for a moment. "Jarilo-VI, correct." A beat of silence, then her brow furrowed. "You have interests there too?" Another pause, longer this time, and Skott could almost see the gears turning behind her eyes. "I understand. Aligning our arrivals would be... advantageous. Consider it done."
She ended the call, pocketing the device with a finality that brooked no argument, then glanced back at Skott as if just remembering he was there before turning to continue toward the archives.
The brief, cryptic conversation was just another log on the fire of Skott's anxiety. His face burned with heat again as Aventurine's remark about his poker face rang in his ears.
Maybe that's the secret, he thought with a jolt of bitter insight. I need to get a pair of those damn sunglasses. Wear them indoors like that peacock bastard.
It would hide the raw panic he was sure was still plastered all over his face. And who knew? Maybe he'd even score some of those "aura points" the P13 grunts were always whispering about.
The little fuckers.
————————
The key turned in the lock at eleven fifty-eight.
Alexander pushed through the door and found Napoleon already positioned in his wheelchair, hands folded in his lap. The apartment was dark except for the lamp by the entryway. Mary had left it on before retreating upstairs hours ago.
Two years. The routine had calcified into something neither questioned.
Alexander dropped his backpack by the door and crossed the small space. He knelt, tilting his head forward.
"Bendición, papá."
Napoleon's hand settled on his son's crown. "Que Dios te bendiga."
The blessing given, Alexander straightened. Napoleon studied him—the hollows under his eyes, the way his shoulders curved inward even when standing.
"How was your day?"
"Uneventful." Alexander shrugged. "Aced the calculus exam. Couldn't concentrate much, though."
Napoleon nodded. He never asked why. They both knew the answer lived somewhere in the space between them, a thing with teeth they'd stopped naming aloud.
"Ready?"
"Yes."
Alexander bent, slipped one arm beneath his father's knees, the other behind his shoulders. He straightened in a single smooth motion. No grunt. No pause to adjust his grip.
The first month, he'd struggled. Shook under the weight. Now his body knew the angles, the distribution, the fifteen steps up to the second floor.
Napoleon kept his eyes on the ceiling as they climbed.
The bathroom was small. Alexander set his father on the edge of the tub, then knelt to unlace Napoleon's shoes. Socks next. Then the shirt, carefully eased over arms that no longer moved the way they should.
"Temperature?"
Napoleon waited as Alexander turned the faucet, tested the spray with his hand. Steam began to fill the cramped space.
"Good."
Alexander helped him stand—one hand gripping the rail Napoleon had installed himself before the shooting, back when he could still grip things without his fingers locking. The shower hissed. Alexander guided him under the stream, then reached for the soap.
He washed his father's back in silence. Long strokes, methodical. Spine first, then shoulders, working down to the base of the ribs. The scars from the surgery—nine entry wounds, three exit—had faded to silver against Napoleon's skin.
Two minutes passed. Water drummed against tile.
"I check the pistol every morning," Alexander said.
Napoleon stiffened, just barely.
"Before I leave for work, I open the secret compartment in the living room closet. I make sure the safety's on." Alexander's hands didn't stop moving. "Helps me feel less anxious when I'm gone all day, knowing you have something to defend yourself with. Buenos Aires isn't Rosario, but with our luck…"
He trailed off. Rinsed the soap from his father's shoulders.
"I always make sure there's no round in the chamber. Wouldn't want an accident."
Napoleon exhaled through his nose. Slow. Controlled.
"For a week now," Alexander continued, "every single morning, there's been a bullet chambered. Mom doesn't know about its existence."
The water ran. Neither spoke.
Alexander moved to Napoleon's arms, lifting each one to scrub beneath. His hands were gentle. Practiced.
"Wanna talk about it?"
A minute stretched.
When Napoleon finally spoke, his voice was flat. Conversational. Like he was discussing the weather forecast.
"I watch the students through the window. There's a park across the street. School next to it. Kids your age—younger, sometimes—and they're laughing. Playing football. Throwing their arms around each other." He paused. "Didn't know why it bothered me so much. Figured it out last week."
Alexander's hands slowed but didn't stop.
"Haven't seen you smile like that in two years."
The words hung in the steam.
"Your mother hides the bills from me," Napoleon continued. "Thinks I don't notice. She lost track for a second last week when she took a call about my next physical therapy appointment. I saw them. Did the math in my head. Calculated what I know you're bringing home—what you're making slaving away from five in the morning until seven at night, then school until midnight."
Alexander's jaw tightened.
"At the current pace, we'll be financially ruined in less than a year based on the savings I know you have, I think to myself. So immediately, I figure one less mouth to feed means you can afford health insurance for your mother. Means she stops sacrificing herself for me. She'd be devastated, sure. But you wouldn't bend. You'd help her pick herself up. You'd stay the course. You'd both find happiness eventually."
Napoleon's voice remained steady. Matter-of-fact.
"So that same day, I wait until she is asleep. I find the pistol. Chamber it. Unlock the safety. And then put it in my mouth."
Alexander's hands froze against his father's ribs.
"I never manage to pull the trigger even after a minute. So I shrug, put the safety back on. Store it. Then go right to the entrance to wait for you. Been doing it every night."
The shower hissed. Steam curled toward the ceiling.
Alexander's voice came out small. Childlike. "What stops you?"
Napoleon closed his eyes. Water ran down his scalp, dripped from his nose.
"I don't want to give you one more reason not to smile."
Alexander's head dropped forward, forehead pressing against his father's shoulder blade. He didn't make a sound, but his entire frame shook—silent, wrenching tremors that Napoleon felt through skin and bone.
Napoleon reached back with one hand, the motion stiff and awkward, and found his son's hair. He let his palm rest there.
"I've never been a believer like your mother. Faith hit an all-time low after what happened," he said quietly. "But I can't help wondering—if there really is some loving force out there, some grand design—what I possibly did to deserve a son like you. Because I know I don't. I know it in my bones. But here you are anyway. Carrying me up these stairs every single night. Washing my back. Putting me to bed. Working those long hours to provide for your mother and I on top of continuing with your studies. Never once complaining."
His fingers tightened slightly in Alexander's hair.
"So I figure, if God's real and He gave me this gift—this boy who keeps getting up, keeps going, keeps loving me even when I'm nothing but dead weight—then the least I can do is stick around. Let you have a father a little longer. Even if I'm broken. Even if I cost too much."
Alexander's shoulders shook harder.
"I'm so sorry," Napoleon whispered. "I'm sorry you have to be this strong."
The water ran until it turned cold.
————————
The figure in the present stood motionless, a skull of weathered metal staring out from the dark. Dull gold lenses caught the fading light of the memory—empty, reflective, unreadable.
Around him, Alexander's Stellaron began to stir—not resisting, but responding to the presence behind his consciousness. A buried command. A will that refused to die. Golden light pulsed outward, threading through torn muscle and burned skin, mending what mattered most.
The memory dissolved into drifting embers—petals of light torn loose in a silent wind—until only resolve remained.
We have borne our crosses more times than memory can count. Pain changes its shape, but the weight is the same. Remember why you rise—and the body will follow.
He straightened.
We must survive, Alexander.
————————
Time dilated without Xander willing it.
The world stretched thin, each microsecond pulled taut like wire about to snap. The ice lance descended toward his exposed throat with glacial slowness. Blood still pulsed from the wound across his chest, each droplet suspended in the air like crimson stars.
Poetic, in a way. Ironic, certainly.
All those hours—months, maybe over a year—in the Simulated Universe. The countless deaths. The desperate training. Chronosurge had been nothing but desperation made theory, a hypothesis cobbled together from scraps of understanding about how the Stellaron worked inside him. He'd needed an ace, a tool to bridge the gap between his limits and the monsters waiting in Belobog.
Maybe it working so well had been the real mistake. Svarog. The Vagrants. Each victory had fed a confidence that had no business existing.
The lance came closer. Millimeter by millimeter.
Think.
His Stellaron pulsed. Belobog's Stellaron answered. Two hearts beating in perfect synchronization, connected by a thread he'd been too blind to see widening with each passing day. The more he'd attuned himself to Destruction, the more Nanook's power coursed through him, the stronger that tether became.
Of course. Of course.
The connection had been there all along.
When Alexander Salvatore fell from orbit like a burning star, when Qlipoth's flames wrapped around him and the Preservation's blessing sank into his bones, the thread between Stellarons hadn't just grown—it had become a tiny, small bridge. Information had begun flowing both ways. Bodily memories. Techniques. Power.
Belobog's Stellaron had watched what little it could gleam. Learned. Adapted.
It saw Chronosurge in his memories, didn't it? Studied how he accelerated his internal processes, sped his neurons, slowed the world around him. Why wouldn't it replicate what it observed? Cocolia was more than willing based on her view of him. Eager, even. A perfect vessel to mirror his own abilities and exceed them.
Fair play.
Game, set, done.
The cosmic parasite knew its enemy better than the enemy knew himself. It had countered. Adapted. Victory lay centimeters away, measured in the distance between lance-tip and flesh.
For all intents and purposes, this was his loss.
That is… if the Stellaron had been Alexander's only tool.
Golden fire erupted.
The flames exploded outward from the man's chest. No heat. Just force, a barrier manifesting between one instant and the next. Translucent yet solid, shimmering like heat haze made tangible. The ice lance struck the shield with a sound like a bell shattering.
The weapon stopped cold.
Disgust rippled across the void-skull's featureless face. The white crescent smile inverted, curving downward. Something ancient and pitiless radiated from those burning eyes—displeasure made manifest in ways that clawed at sanity's edges.
His struggle hadn't been wasted. His pain hadn't been meaningless.
A man who thought himself damned. Who carried the weight of a fifteen-year-old's sin like chains wrapped around his soul. Who measured his worth in the bodies he'd broken and the child he'd abandoned to her trauma.
That man had found people.
Stubborn people. People with hearts too good for the world, who refused to accept the story he'd written for himself.
The barrier held.
Xander's remaining hand pressed against the frozen ground, fingers digging into ice. Blood still leaked from the horrific wound across his chest. His prosthetic arm lay meters away, sparking and useless.
But the flames didn't waver.
Years of self-hate don't fade in a week. A lifetime of guilt doesn't wash away with kind words. Xander's heart had hardened, and breaking through it would take more than their wishes. But—
For the love he'd come to feel for them, he could stand.
And for their sake, he could keep fighting.
Cocolia's lance scraped against golden flames, the shriek of ice on divine fire splitting the frozen air.
Her void-skull face twisted. Those burning eyes—gold rimmed with red—fixed on the shield with an emotion Alexander recognized instantly.
Rage.
Pure, incandescent fury at seeing Qlipoth's blessing, the Aeon she'd devoted her life to serving, manifested in a complete stranger.
The lance withdrew. Cocolia's form blurred.
"Down!"
Seele materialized between Alexander and the incoming strike, scythe raised. The world stuttered—Cocolia activated Chronosurge mid-lunge, her movements fracturing into impossible speed. The scythe whistled through empty air.
But Seele grinned, teeth bared. Purple light erupted around her feet.
Resurgence!
Space folded. Seele vanished from Cocolia's predicted trajectory and reappeared at the corrupted woman's flank, scythe already descending. The blade caught Cocolia's shoulder, tearing through crystalline armor and drawing a line of golden ichor across the corrupted flesh beneath.
The corrupted Supreme Guardian stumbled. Her head snapped toward Seele with mechanical precision.
"Not as fast as you think you are," Seele said, spinning her scythe. "Still slower than me!"
A lie. Alexander knew it. Seele knew it. But the goad landed anyway.
Cocolia's mouth opened. That chorus of voices—adult and child, male and female—shrieked in discordant harmony. The sound scraped against Alexander's eardrums like broken glass.
Then March's arrows came.
Volleys of crystalline ice streaked through the air, each one humming with stored energy. Cocolia blurred backward, Chronosurge painting her movements in streaks of afterimage. The arrows struck frozen ground where she'd stood a heartbeat before.
Detonations rippled outward. Ice shattered into thousands of razor-edged fragments that filled the air like deadly snow.
Gepard reached Alexander's side, shield raised. The barrier expanded, golden light washing over the group as March added her own protective dome. The ice shards pinged harmlessly off the layered defenses.
Bronya arrived next, rifle ready. Then Natasha, already reaching for Alexander with healing light building between her palms. Serval brought up the rear, electricity crackling along her guitar strings.
"Report," Bronya snapped, her voice cutting through the chaos.
Natasha knelt, her expression grim as her practiced eyes took in the damage. "Massive trauma to the chest, but the Stellaron is... regenerating it at an impossible rate. The major concern is the arm. His prosthetic has been completely severed." She gestured toward the sparking wreck lying meters away in the snow.
Alexander pushed himself upright, his ribs screaming in protest. Natasha's Abundance powers sank into his chest wound, a warmth that burned as it knitted torn flesh and aided his own frantic healing. "It's closing," he grunted, the words tasting of blood. "Just... give me a second."
"Can you still fight?" Bronya's question was practical, sharp, leaving no room for sentiment.
Losing a limb, even a prosthetic one, does more than rob a person of a tool. It rewrites the body's entire map of itself. Balance becomes a conscious effort. The distribution of weight shifts. Every punch, every parry, every desperate lunge requires a recalculation of leverage and force that a lifetime of muscle memory fights against.
"I can," Alexander said, his voice a low growl of conviction.
Unbeknown to them, his body wasn't just his own.
————————
The world dissolved into a silent theater of the mind. He was on the ground here, too, mirroring his physical state. A figure approached through the gray emptiness, its familiar skull-mask and dark overcoat cutting an imposing silhouette.
To this day, he always wondered what he was. A memetic echo? A psychic parasite? Or something else, something akin to March's situation with… E*t?
The thought scared him, but ultimately, he didn't know. He only knew it was there.
"You again," Alexander breathed, the words forming without sound. The Doomsday Beast. The countless, grinding deaths in the Simulated Universe. The final stand beside Svarog. "You're just set on not letting me die, are you?"
The figure didn't answer. It moved with a chilling economy of motion, kneeling beside him. Those dim gold lenses weren't looking at the mending wound on his chest but at the empty space where his right arm should have been. A hand hovered over the ruined stump of his shoulder as if examining the damage.
A bitter, humorless laugh escaped Alexander. "Think Herta can build a better one next time?"
The masked head shook once, a curt, definitive motion. "Your next prosthetic will be Belobogian."
The voice came through a filter, distorted and electronic, as if from a crude modulator. But now, listening closer in the silence of his own mind, Alexander caught something else beneath the synthetic rasp. A frayed, gravelly quality, like the sound of vocal cords pushed past their limit one too many times, permanently scarred.
He scoffed, the strange timbre of that voice unsettling him. "After everything I've done? They'd sooner throw me back into the snow."
"Especially so," the voice stated, the same damaged texture underpinning its certainty.
The certainty in that voice unnerved him. Alexander looked past the masked presence toward the imagined battlefield that raged on without him. "Do you think I can make it out of this one?" he asked, his voice losing its sarcastic edge. "That thing knows Chronosurge now. I'd bet my last shred of bad luck it can use Rend if it has to."
"It doesn't change a thing."
Alexander laughed, a raw, broken sound. "Right. Just gotta fight one-handed and—"
He was cut off by movement. The skull-masked entity crouched, scooping the mangled image of his prosthetic from the mental floor and slinging it over one shoulder. Then, a phantom hand clamped onto Alexander's bicep, hoisting him to his feet with an impossible strength.
"Do not worry about the balance," the cold voice declared. "I will stabilize the load."
Alexander stared, the phantom weight of the hand on his arm feeling shockingly real. He took it in for a moment, the sheer absurdity and the profound truth of it all crashing together.
"You know," he murmured, his gaze distant, "all those times you pulled me back... part of me just wanted it to end. But right now... for the first time in a long, long time... I want to make it out of this alive." He met the golden stare of the mask. "Is that enough? Can that actually make a difference?"
"It will make all the difference."
A wave of confusion and a desperate need to understand washed over him. "Why? Why didn't you let me die all those times? Is it... is it because you'd die with me? God, I'm sorry if—"
"I do not let you die," the voice interrupted, devoid of all but absolute certainty, "because you do not want to die. Not in the part of you that matters."
A phantom wind seemed to sweep through the gray space, a stillness pregnant with meaning.
"We love too deeply, Alexander. It is our flaw. It is our strength. That love is the hand that picks us back up, every single time."
Our flaw? Our strength? "What?"
The grip on his arm tightened, a final, grounding pressure.
"Less questions. More battle."
————————
The gray void shattered. Alexander blinked, the frigid air of Everwinter Hill burning in his lungs. He was on his feet. The others watched, expecting him to stumble, to compensate for the missing weight on his right side.
He stood perfectly still. His balance was absolute, his posture unwavering, as if an unseen force was holding him steady.
"Xander, your eye—" Serval started, her voice a mixture of scientific curiosity and alarm.
His right eye, the one on the same side as his severed arm, was no longer gold. It flared with an iridescent purple light, churning with an energy that was not his own.
He barely glanced at her. "Don't worry about it," he said, his voice level and firm. "I can fight. More importantly, that thing can use Chronosurge. Same as me."
"How?"
"The Stellarons." Alexander spat blood into the snow. "Mine and Belobog's—they're connected. Deeper than before apparently, after my impromptu preparation right before our evacuation efforts began. The parasite must have learned by watching what little memories it could gleam through that link is my hypothesis. Figured out the technique, and now its using it through her."
Bronya's eyes found Cocolia across the battlefield. Something in her expression shifted.
"Does that mean it knows our strategy and everything we've prepared?"
Alexander stared at the Engine of Creation behind her. At the risk of saying too much, he settled for a simple:
"No."
The uncertainty, the desperate hope that her mother might still be saved—it hardened, replaced by something colder.
Righteous fury.
"Then we stick to the plan but with a new addendum." Bronya's voice switched to commanding. "Champion, you'll focus on defense. When she activates Chronosurge, you match it—protect us. We'll handle offense and wear her down."
"There's a weakness," Alexander said, the purple in his eye seeming to pulse with his words. Natasha's healing light faded as the wound on his torso finally sealed. "Chronosurge tears the body apart. I can withstand it to a certain extend because of the Stellaron's regeneration and now Qlipoth's blessing. Of course, it all depends on how much I pace myself. I'd be willing to bet it can't do the same."
Understanding flickered across Bronya's face. "A war of attrition."
"Correct."
Gepard shifted his weight, shield still raised. "Everyone clear on their roles?"
Nods rippled through the group. March nocked another arrow. Seele's scythe hummed with quantum energy. Serval's fingers danced across guitar strings, building charge.
Cocolia's laughter cut through their preparations.
The corrupted woman hovered above the frozen plain, arms spread wide. The void-skull tilted at an unnatural angle, those burning eyes fixed on Alexander with something that might have been amusement in a creature still capable of human emotion.
"You thought it would be that easy?" The chorus voice reverberated through bone and marrow. "Did you think we came unprepared?"
Her hand raised. The Lance of Preservation blazed with corrupted light.
The ground trembled. Snow cascaded from distant peaks.
Behind Cocolia, the Engine of Creation moved.
Seventy meters of marble and machinery groaned to life. Battle damage scarred its frame—cracks spiderwebbed across its chest, one arm hung at an awkward angle—but it rose regardless. Those red eyes ignited with fresh malevolence. Gears the size of houses began to turn.
The massive construct raised its functional arm. Fist clenched.
"We have seen your memories, little vessel," the Stellaron crooned through Cocolia's mouth. "We know what you carry. The weight of a child's screams. The blood on your hands. The father who nearly died. The girl you abandoned."
Alexander's jaw clenched. His remaining hand curled into a fist.
"This is what you wrought. This destruction—your doing. Your interference. Your arrogance."
The Engine's fist began its descent. Aimed at the ground. At the Underworld below, where thousands huddled in fragile hope.
"Watch them die again."
The fist dropped.
Thunder split the frozen sky as the massive construct's knuckles plummeted toward impact. Alexander's Stellaron pulsed. Chronosurge built in his chest, ready to—
The ground erupted.
An ethereal dragon, scales shimmering azure and white, burst through ice and stone with a roar that shook reality. Dan Heng's dragon—massive, ancient, furious—rose from the Underworld like vengeance given form.
The Engine's fist met the dragon's ascending body.
For one suspended instant, neither yielded.
Then the dragon pierced.
Claws like spears punched through the Engine's torso. The construct's red eyes flickered. Sparks cascaded from the wound as the dragon's momentum carried it higher, its force managing to lift the seventy-meter colossus off the ground.
————————
Luka hoisted another loaded stretcher, his good arm burning with the effort. The metal legs scraped against the rubble-strewn floor of Boulder Town. Oleg grunted on the other end, his mechanical arm whirring softly as they carried the unconscious miner toward Natasha's overflowing clinic. The Wildfire medic and leader, her face a mask of exhaustion, directed them toward a space cleared against a wall.
They set the stretcher down. The miner's breathing was a shallow, ragged thing.
"That's the last one from this section," Oleg said, wiping soot from his brow.
Luka nodded, flexing his gloved fingers. His own mechanical arm felt heavy, a dull echo of the strain in his flesh-and-blood one. He was a fighter, not a rescue worker, but the distinction meant nothing now. There was only the work.
A figure cut through the haze of smoke and emergency lights. Ah.
The sight of him was still a shock. The silver-white hair, the sun-kissed skin that seemed to defy the Underworld's gloom, and the raw, skeletal look of the prosthetic where his right arm used to be. He moved with a purpose that parted the crowd of wounded and helpers.
He stopped before them. His golden eyes, no longer burning with that terrifying fire but still holding an impossible depth, met Oleg's.
"Chief," he said. His voice was raw, but steady. "Luka. I need a moment. And I need your best people."
Oleg's expression hardened. "My best people are busy. Look around you."
"I have. That's why I'm here." the man's gaze was unyielding. "I need anyone who knows these caverns better than their own kin. Old miners. Geomarrow surveyors. Anyone who understands the bones of this place."
Luka looked from Oleg to the newly labeled Champion of Qlipoth. The request made no sense. They needed diggers and medics, not geologists.
"What for?"
"A planning session for what comes next."
Oleg folded his arms. "We're still digging out from 'what came before.' Whatever it is, it can wait."
"No, it can't."
A new voice joined them. "He's right."
Bronya emerged from the throng near the clinic, her face smudged with dirt, followed like a shadow by Seele from behind. The formal bearing of the Overworld heir was gone, replaced by a soldier's grim resolve.
Oleg's eyes narrowed, but he gave a curt nod. He pulled a rag from his belt and wiped his hands. "Fine. Luka, get Yevgeny and his crew. The old timers from the 700-year vein. Meet us at the command post."
The 'command post' was just a corner of the main square cleared of debris, where a few salvaged tables held maps and communication equipment. Yevgeny, a miner so old his back was a permanent arch, arrived with two others. Their faces were carved with lines deep as the fissures in the rock they worked. They looked at the Champion and Bronya with wary curiosity.
"We don't have much time," he began, leaning over a table, not bothering with pleasantries. "Cocolia is still up there. So is the Engine of Creation."
"We know," Oleg said. "We can hear the damn thing groaning every few hours."
"She's not just sitting in it. The energy I feel from her… it's grown. We can't fight her and that machine at the same time. If she decides to hit the ground again, none of this," he gestured to the rescue efforts, "will matter."
A cold silence fell over their small group. Luka felt a knot form in his gut. The memory of the ceiling coming down, the world ending in a roar of stone and dust, was still fresh.
"So you've got a plan to take out a seventy-meter war machine controlled by a god-wannabe?"
"I have the beginnings of one." He turned to the old miners. "I need to know about the ceiling. Tell me anything about its structural integrity: load-bearing points, weakest sections, everything."
Yevgeny shuffled his feet. "The ceiling? Champion, with all due respect and with all the eternal gratitude I owe you and your companions, we spend our lives making sure the ceiling stays up."
"I'm aware, Yevgeny. But I need to know where to apply force. Upwards."
Luka's breath caught. He saw Oleg stiffen, his biological hand clenching into a fist.
"That's insane," Oleg growled. "You want to attack the ceiling after what just happened? I'm sorry, but I can't be the only one thinking we'd just be finishing the job Cocolia started?"
"I want to target the support structure directly beneath the Engine's position on the surface. A surgical strike from below."
Bronya, who had been studying an Overworld map on a datapad, looked up. "Based on the seismic readings, we can pinpoint the Engine's location to be currently positioned over the old northern sector, just below the Everwinter Hill. For reference, that is miles from the Furnace Core."
"And what's under the northern sector?"
Yevgeny's face went pale. "Rock. Mostly solid. But it's a tiered cavern system. A major strike there… it wouldn't just punch a hole. The shockwave could compromise the entire arch. You hit the wrong spot, you create a chain reaction. The pillars shift, the weight redistributes… and the whole thing comes down. Everything. Boulder Town, the mines, all of it."
"Another Long Night of Solace," Luka whispered, the words tasting like ash.
"The alternative is not an option. The Supreme Guardian, Lord knows what's going on her head, isn't exactly playing games here. All we can be sure of and assume is that she will activate the Engine again at some point. The next hit will definitely finish the job regardless of our say in the matter."
He looked at each of them in turn. "I know what it looks like. I know what I'm asking. But fighting her and that machine head-on is suicide. Even with my abilities, trying to take the Lance from her while she's in the state I believe her to be… the odds are negligible. This path buys us better chances."
Oleg paced back and forth, one hand rubbing his grizzled beard. "It's a madman's gamble."
"We're in a madman's world," Bronya said softly. She looked at Oleg. "My mother… Cocolia… she's not the woman you knew. She's not the woman I knew. Right now, she's a vessel for the Stellaron's will. She won't stop."
Oleg stopped pacing. He stared at the worn schematic on the table, then at Xander. The chief's face was a mask of grim calculus. He saw the cold, brutal logic. He hated it. But he saw it.
Luka watched him, his heart a frantic drum against his ribs. He trusted him. He did. But this… this was betting the lives of every survivor on a single, impossible throw.
Finally, Oleg slammed his flesh hand on the table. "Yevgeny. Unroll the deep strata charts. The ones from before the lockdown."
The old miner hesitated, then nodded slowly. He reached into a leather satchel and pulled out a tube. He carefully unrolled a massive, yellowed parchment across the table, revealing a complex web of tunnels, support pillars, and geological stress notations that dwarfed the common maps.
"Show us," Oleg commanded, his voice heavy with the weight of their world. "Show us where to aim the bullet."