Aboard the Apex Carrier Ship
The masked man leaned back in the command chair. One hand rested on the armrest, fingers rising and falling like a slow metronome.
Beyond the viewport, the remains of the asteroid scattered through the void—shattered stone glowing faint orange from friction, spiraling like ashes in a funeral wind. A few burning fragments broke away, diving toward the planet below.
He watched them fall.
A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
"Destruction has a certain… elegance, doesn't it?"
The door hissed open behind him.
A trooper entered, posture rigid, footsteps loud and precise. He stopped a few paces from the chair, right hand clenched over his chest in salute.
"Sir. The salvage ships have arrived. Collection of the fragments is underway."
No reply came at first. The masked man drew a breath, let it sit in his lungs.
"And the survivors?"
The trooper tapped a button on his wrist. His visor lit up with red scans.
"Some miners and troopers managed to escape the blast. One enemy life sign remains."
A beat of silence.
"We're preparing to eliminate the rest, as you ordered."
The smile returned—slower this time.
"Good."
He stood now, coat sweeping behind him.
"You can kill the rest, but as for the enemy, capture him alive."
The trooper gave a sharp nod, turned, and left without another word.
The man's eyes returned to the drifting wreckage. For a moment, the silence was complete. Then a quiet beep broke the stillness.
He looked down at his wrist.
His eyes narrowed.
Without a word, he stepped toward the command wall. A hidden panel slid open, revealing a narrow chamber lit in a cold, electric blue.
He entered.
Six tall screens lined the walls. One by one, they flickered to life. Each screen held a figure—faces hidden, masks shaped in different patterns.
He stepped into the center.
"Everything is proceeding as planned."
Crackling static filled the room. One screen surged brighter as the figure on it leaned forward. His mask was jagged, black, streaked with gold veins—like lightning frozen mid-strike.
"Planned?"
The voice was dry, brittle.
"You let Jov die."
The masked man stood still.
"And?"
The silence was immediate.
Even through the masks, the tension was sharp.
The lightning-masked figure let out a sound—half breath, half growl.
"And? What do you mean by 'and'?"
He stepped closer to his screen. The golden cracks along his mask caught the flickering light.
"You knew how important he was. The temples don't open for just anyone. Jov was one of the few with fire in his soul."
His voice grew harsher, cutting through the chamber.
"We can burn a hundred wind users and not lose sleep. But fire soulcores? Do you even realize how rare they are?"
The masked man didn't speak. He didn't flinch.
Another screen flickered.
The silhouette of a woman reclined into a throne-shaped chair, its tall, curved frame wrapped in velvet shadow. Her mask shimmered like moonlight on a frozen lake—silver with curling frost patterns etched across its surface.
A quiet laugh echoed from her lips. It had no warmth.
"Wise men soften with age."
Her head tilted, just enough for the silver to catch the light.
"But you... You were never wise, were you?"
The masked man's fingers twitched at his side. His stance stayed firm, but his jaw locked tight.
"Careful, ice witch."
His voice barely rose above a breath.
"If it were my call, you'd be the one buried beneath the asteroid. Not that failed fire-blood."
She laughed again, this time slower. She leaned forward, her mask gleaming like a blade.
"I wonder if it keeps you up at night… knowing the Water Clan drowned in its own cowardice. A legacy washed away by its own fear."
The masked man didn't move. But the heat behind his eyes said enough.
Before the tension snapped, another voice cut through.
"Enough."
The air changed.
Every screen dimmed. Then the center one swelled to life. A figure stood there—taller than the others, wrapped in a cloak blacker than space itself. His mask didn't reflect light. It consumed it. Silver lines spiraled across it, alive and moving, like storm winds caught in a loop with no end.
The pressure in the chamber deepened.
The masked man lowered his head.
"Lord Mask."
The others followed. No words. No sound.
Then the voice came again—smooth as ice and heavy as judgment.
"Rise, Greg."
The masked man straightened.
"You have done well."
A pause.
"But the fire user. Why waste him? He still held value."
Greg met the screen, shoulders squared.
"He had no future. His potential was borrowed, not earned."
He paused. A flicker of something lit behind his mask.
"I've already found another."
The figure on the screen tilted ever so slightly.
"And who might that be?"
Another pause.
"You're not about to say Flame… are you?"
One of the screens flashed. The golden-masked figure leaned forward. His voice cracked like sparks on dry stone.
"That's suicide. If you go after Flame, we lose more than a soldier—we lose the war."
Greg didn't blink.
"Not Flame."
His voice sharpened.
"His son."
The woman in the frost-marked mask tapped a single finger on her armrest. The sound echoed faintly, like ice cracking on glass.
"Hmm... now that is interesting."
She leaned forward slightly, the silver on her mask catching the light.
"But didn't you just kill him?"
Greg didn't hesitate.
"One of the brothers survived."
He turned slightly, glancing toward a smaller screen still running silent battlefield footage.
"It couldn't be the oldest. We fired the main beam straight at him. No chance he made it."
He looked back toward the others.
"It's one of the other two. And I'm certain the promising one is still alive."
Another screen came alive with a dull flicker. A new figure sat motionless. His mask was the color of dried earth—brown and gray, cracked down the middle like a stone split under pressure. His voice rumbled low, like thunder rolling beneath the surface.
"And how do you plan to turn him to our side?"
He didn't shift. The crack in his mask caught the shadows.
"You all saw how he looked at his father. Like a god."
The words hung in the air. No one interrupted.
Greg turned his head.
His eyes settled on Lord Mask.
The stillness returned. The room drew quiet as if holding its breath.
Then, from the dark figure on the central screen—
"Good."
The tone didn't rise. It didn't need to.
"He will do."
Silence followed.
Then—
"If he refuses..."
The pressure in the chamber thickened, the way the sky hangs before a storm breaks.
"...then we will break him."
Greg's mouth curved beneath the mask.
His gaze shifted to one of the side screens—a live feed of the shattered asteroid still glowing as it drifted through space like dying embers.
Everything was moving. Pieces were in place.
The plan had begun.
And this time, nothing would stop it.
————
Somewhere in the void
Ash floated.
The asteroid was gone—reduced to debris scattered across the stars. Shards of rock drifted like ash on water, glowing dimly as if mourning their own destruction.
In the distance, shadowed ships moved between the wreckage. Smooth, silent, watching—but offering no help.
Ash's body hung in the cold, his limbs loose, unmoving. Torn cloth fluttered around him. Dust clung to his skin.
A faint white light pulsed from his chest, slow and steady.
Then—
Darkness.
————
Warmth.
It poured over him.
Not heat, but something deeper—like being drawn out of a nightmare and into memory. The chill of space vanished. In its place: weight, breath, heartbeat.
He wasn't floating anymore.
Ash stirred.
The air was thick and felt alive.
He lay on something soft. His fingers curled into it. A bed? A pulse of energy moved through him—pure, strange, and not his own.
His breath came in shallow bursts.
'Where… am I?'
He didn't speak the words. But they echoed inside.
And then—something stirred nearby.
Ash heard voices.
Muffled at first. Like sound trapped underwater. But slowly, the words began to sharpen.
His eyes opened—or, at least, they were already open. He stared upward, unable to move, locked into a vision of gold.
A ceiling, carved and glowing, stretched above him. Golden panels ran in twisting patterns, some alive with faint runes that pulsed like veins. Light danced across them.
He tried to move. Nothing.
Tried to speak. Nothing.
He wasn't in control.
Not even a twitch.
It felt like he was watching through someone else's eyes—trapped inside a body that wasn't his. The head turned on its own, slow and smooth, guided by someone else.
A woman's voice came next. Her words cracked with pain.
"I know you don't care. But I do. I don't want to send another one of my children into that trial."
Her voice trembled.
"Why does he have to be a godborn?"
The head turned again. Ash caught sight of her now.
She looked human. But she wasn't.
Neither of them was.
Two giant figures stood in a marble chamber that shimmered like starlight. The man towered beside the woman. His eyes glowed—a steady, ancient fire burning behind them. The woman, cloaked in white threads that floated as if underwater, stood firm with hands clenched.
The man sighed.
"I already have many children. Losing a few should mean nothing… not if the rest survive, grow stronger, and uphold our name."
He looked down.
Right at Ash.
No—at the body Ash was inside.
The woman didn't flinch.
Her voice rose.
"All you ever speak of is family. A name. A house. But they're not just bloodlines to me. I loved my children. I already lost one of my daughters to that cursed trial, and you want me to stand aside and lose another?"
Ash couldn't move. Couldn't look away.
But now he understood.
He was a passenger in the body of a baby.
The way the man spoke. The way they looked down. The size of their forms. The stillness in his limbs.
These were the child's parents.
And if this was real—then…
Was he dead?
Was this reincarnation?
The thought spiraled, heavier than anything else.
'Did my brothers survive?'
That was the one that stayed. That clawed its way up through every other thought.
But this… this wasn't how reincarnation worked. Not in the stories. Not in the books.
Suddenly, the light blurred.
The world around him twisted. Time fractured. The golden ceiling broke into streaks of motion—changing, shifting—until everything shattered into new color.
The air was different.
Ash found himself kneeling.
He could feel the earth under his knees, but not under his control. He wasn't moving—only following.
Voices echoed again, far away. Like they weren't speaking to him, but around him.
He looked forward.
The world stretched out in wild color and impossible shape.
Mountains reached toward the sky like obsidian towers. Great winged beasts—draconic, massive—swept across the peaks. Their scales shimmered, catching the light of three suns.
Yes—three.
Three burning stars in the sky.
And suddenly, it hit him.
'Ok. Am really not in Varagos anymore.'