The broken land stretched out in silence — jagged plains of fractured stone, veins of golden heat glowing beneath their feet. The air shimmered faintly with residual energy, warped and heavy. Every now and then, distant howls echoed from unseen crevices, sharp and guttural, but nothing came close.
Anthony led the way. His movements were cautious but practiced, like someone who had walked this road too many times to count — and survived each one by instinct alone.
March followed close behind, her bow slung over her back. She kept glancing at Anthony, curiosity simmering until she finally spoke. "S-So… Mr. Anthony… how old are you? Since you've been here for twenty-two years?"
Anthony looked down, thinking. His voice came out softer. "I'm either forty… or forty-one."
Dan Heng nodded slightly, listening.
"I know I was in my twenties when I was taken," Anthony added. "Twenty… maybe twenty-one."
March's eyes widened. "So you've been here since you were basically just an adult…"
"Assuming time passes the same here as it does out there." Anthony tipped his head back toward the fractured sky. "Some days it feels longer. Way longer. Like time just… stretches."
His voice trailed off, fraying at the edges.
Welt caught the shift immediately. "Even so," he said gently, "you endured. That alone speaks volumes."
Anthony didn't answer at first. When he did, it was quiet, distant. "Thanks."
There was no awkwardness — only the tone of someone for whom the word endure had been worn thin over time. In the beginning, it had meant something. Back when he carved tally marks into the walls with Pyre Dog bone. Before he stopped counting, relying on his synergy skill instead.
Dust stirred along the cracked stone path as he continued leading them.
After a moment, Dan Heng spoke up, steady but curious. "How long has the Stellaron been present here, Mr. Cloyne?"
Anthony didn't hesitate. "Five years."
That made all three Nameless slow down.
Welt turned toward him. "You're certain?"
"One hundred percent." Anthony didn't miss a beat.
Even March, who had been scanning the strange terrain, blinked. "Five years? But the state of this planet… it looks like it's been decaying for decades."
Anthony frowned. "What do you mean? Decaying for decades?"
"You've really never noticed how damaged this world is?" March asked, uncertain.
"Torn up?" Anthony repeated. "What are you talking about?"
Welt pushed his glasses up. "From orbit, this planet showed signs of catastrophic degradation. Cracked tectonic plates, ruptured landmasses, Fragmentum saturation. Structurally, it's barely holding together."
Dan Heng looked out over the barren plain. "But here on the surface… nothing matches that. It's dry, cracked, lifeless — but intact."
March turned slowly, taking in the land again with fresh eyes. "No Fragmentum… no corrupted zones… no storms. It really is just a desert."
Welt's eyes narrowed. The stillness. The uniform lighting. The haze that didn't shift. "It doesn't just look stable," he murmured. "It feels curated."
A realization flickered across his face.
"Why didn't we see the discrepancy sooner?"
March blinked. "What discrepancy?"
"From orbit, we saw a planet split open," Welt said. "On the surface, we see none of that. And yet… when we landed, none of us questioned it."
Dan Heng's expression hardened. "That isn't like us."
March swallowed. "So something made us not notice?"
Welt looked to Anthony.
He stood there with his arms loose at his sides, weary but alert. No aura, no strange energy — yet something shifted when he had asked why.
"It's because he questioned us," Welt said quietly.
March blinked. "Huh?"
"When Anthony asked why we thought the planet had been dying for decades," Dan Heng said, "it pushed the thought past whatever was… blurring it."
Welt nodded. "Awareness. That was all it took."
Anthony looked confused. "What are you talking about?"
"When we landed," Welt said, "everything felt normal. Barren, yes — but stable. We didn't connect what we saw from orbit with what we saw here. Not until you made us think about it."
Anthony stared at them, uncertain. "I can't say anything about that. I've never seen the planet from the outside."
Welt tapped his cane thoughtfully. "The moment we touched down, the discrepancy should've been obvious. Instead, it slid right past us. Like something gently nudged our perception away from it."
"To make the abnormal seem normal," Dan Heng added.
Welt nodded. "Subtle. Deliberate."
Dan Heng's eyes narrowed. "The Stellaron."
Silence settled.
"We know what Stellarons do," Welt said. "But this… this is different. Not physical devastation — perceptual interference."
"Why would a Stellaron do that?" March whispered.
"No idea," Welt said. "We understand the consequences of Stellarons. Not their intent. Maybe this one evolved. Or maybe it's something else entirely."
"Something else entirely…" Anthony echoed.
The words hung in the air.
And something surfaced — a memory he had buried under years of survival, rising like an old wound tearing open.
He remembered before Thelha Ra'tha. Before the hunger. Before the ash-choked years. Before he forgot what hope felt like.
He remembered the moment everything changed.
One second he was in his own world — whole, grounded, real.
And the next…
He was somewhere else.
Standing.
Frozen before a presence that defied all logic.
Not a figure. Not a shape. Not light or shadow — yet somehow both. Faceless, yet watching. Voiceless, yet speaking.
And in that place — that void — those words echoed through him:
"Calm yourself, Anthony Cloyne… You've been chosen. That is all you need to know."
He didn't respond. Couldn't. Air vanished from his lungs, his limbs refused to move, and his thoughts scattered. He had never felt so small — so profoundly insignificant. A grain of sand resting in the palm of something ancient and immeasurable.
Then it was gone.
The presence.
The void.
Everything.
Replaced by blistering heat, the smell of burning stone, and the roll of distant thunder. He woke on a cracked ledge beneath a bleeding sky, surrounded by fractured, lifeless earth.
Thelha Ra'tha.
His prison.
And hovering before his eyes was the very first thing this world ever gave him — a glowing yellow prompt.
A system.
One he still wasn't sure he was allowed to tell these people about.
[ Welcome, {Chosen One}, to Thelha Ra'tha. Your Testing Grounds. ]
[ Your goal is to survive and grow stronger in this world. ]
He had stared, stunned. Tried to swipe it away. Talk to it. Ignore it. But it stayed, then faded, then returned — patient, unyielding. A guide? A curse? A chain?
He hadn't known then. He still didn't.
But he knew one thing:
It was tied to that being.
The one who dropped him here.
The one who "chose" him.
And for years, he asked the same question:
Why him?
He screamed it into caves. Whispered it to dying campfires. Scratched it into stone with bloodied fingers. No answer ever came.
Eventually… he stopped asking.
But now — walking beside these strangers from the stars, hearing them uncover truths he'd given up on — the question clawed its way back into him.
Was this the Stellaron's doing?
Or that being's?
Or… were they one and the same?
He had no answer. He never did. But the thought took root and would not let go.
"Mr. Anthony…?" March's voice came soft and uncertain, as if she wasn't sure he heard her.
It barely reached him.
"Mr. Cloyne?" Dan Heng's tone was sharper, cutting through the fog gathering in his mind.
Anthony blinked and inhaled, suddenly grounded again — no longer lost in memory, but standing among strangers on land he knew too well.
"O-Oh," he muttered, rubbing the side of his head. "Sorry. I was… thinking."
March tilted her head. "Something important?"
He nodded faintly, gaze drifting. "Yeah. Kind of. It's just—" His voice lowered. "The only reason I survived this long — the only reason I kept going — was because I thought maybe, somehow, I'd find a way back to them."
March's expression softens. "If you don't mind me asking… who?"
Anthony looked down.
"My family. My little sister, Rose. My mom and dad. I was barely an adult when I was taken… but Rose? She was six. Loud. Curious. Always asking questions. My mom was strict but kind. My dad… didn't talk much, but when he did, it mattered."
He stared up at the scarlet sky, voice thinning. "I never even got to say goodbye."
Dan Heng looked away, quiet for a long moment.
"You endured twenty-two years alone for the chance to see them again. Most people couldn't do that."
Anthony let out a hollow breath — a sound that might've been a laugh once. "It wasn't strength. It was desperation. Obsession. A thread I wrapped around my heart and refused to let go of. Something to hold onto when everything else broke."
Silence settled over them — not heavy, just honest.
Anthony blinked, pulling himself back to the present. He straightened, brushing dust from the pelt on his shoulder.
"I should keep leading you," he said softly. "Sorry. Didn't mean to drift."
March offered him a small smile — fragile but sincere.
"No need to apologize, Mr. Anthony. If it were me, I think I'd have snapped way earlier."
Her voice dimmed to a murmur. "Honestly… I don't know if I'd have lasted at all."
The thought lingered unspoken: If the express hadn't found me when they did... if she had crashed landed on some random planet could she have survived here? With no memories? No family? Nothing to cling to?
She glanced at Anthony again — the way he walked, the quiet weight on his shoulders, the gravity carved into him by years of endurance. Not heroic. Not proud. Just… stubborn. Unbreakable in the simplest, hardest way.
And March felt small — not belittled, but humbled.
Then Anthony broke the silence.
"…By the way," he said slowly, "why haven't you asked about the ██████ at all?"
Three heads turned.
March blinked. "The what?"
Anthony frowned. "The… you know. The thing I told you about when we first met. The word that got censored when I tried saying it out loud."
Dan Heng's brow furrowed. "I don't recall you ever saying that."
Anthony froze.
"…What?"
Welt's expression darkened with thought. "There's something… faint. Like a memory I can almost reach. But when I try, it disappears."
Anthony stared at them, disbelief creeping into his voice. "You're telling me you don't remember that? Any of it?"
March shook her head. "Sorry, Mr. Anthony. We really don't. Are you sure you said it out loud?"
"I—" He cut himself off.
He had. He remembered it perfectly.
Welt asking him to repeat it.
Dan Heng noticing the silence.
March joking nervously about scary words.
The static in the air.
The way time skipped.
He remembered everything.
But they remembered nothing.
"I'm not making this up," Anthony said, voice tightening. "You heard me. All of you. I said it, and the world— it glitched. Like something didn't want you to hear it."
"…And now," Welt murmured, realization creeping in, "it doesn't want us to remember we ever did."
A cold sweat slid down Anthony's spine.
"Is that even possible?" March whispered.
Dan Heng folded his arms, expression grim. "If it can censor a word from reality… memory tampering may be within its ability as well."
Anthony swallowed. "That's not something a Stellaron can do… is it?"
Welt was silent for a long, heavy moment.
Then, quietly: "…No. None we've ever encountered."
"An Aeon," Welt murmured again. "Perhaps."
Anthony looked over at him, confusion tightening his brow. "A what…?"
Welt's hand settled over the curve of his cane as he answered. "Explaining THEM thoroughly would take some time… but in the simplest terms, Aeons are high-dimensional beings. Entities that transcend conventional existence. THEY'RE difficult to define, but THEY preside over the concepts that make up our universe."
"Concepts?" Anthony echoed.
Dan Heng spoke next, his tone calm and grounded. "Yes. Concepts like Destruction, Preservation, Harmony, Nihility. Each Aeon represents and enforces a Path—an idea or force that becomes law wherever Their influence extends."
Anthony's gaze flicked toward him. "Preservation…?"
Then something clicked behind his eyes. "Does that mean… you know what a Pathstrider is?"
That brought all three Trailblazers to an abrupt stop.
Dan Heng blinked, visibly taken aback. "You don't know what an Aeon is… but you know what a Pathstrider is?"
March's confusion tightened her expression. "Wait, that's backwards, right? I thought Pathstriders were a thing because of the Aeons and Their Paths."
Welt shook his head slightly. "Not necessarily, March. One can understand a Path without knowing an Aeon exists. Someone might live by the philosophy of a Path—embody its nature—without realizing the greater force behind it."
March blinked as she processed that. "So… someone could be following a Path without knowing it?"
"In theory," Welt replied. Then his eyes shifted back to Anthony, studying him with a quiet, sharpened curiosity. "However, the term Pathstrider is different. It's a formal title—one only used by those aware of the Aeons and Their domains. That is why Dan Heng found your mention of it unusual."
Anthony didn't respond. His expression had closed off—distant, guarded in a way that suggested this line of questioning brushed against something he wasn't sure he wanted to revisit.
Dan Heng's voice remained steady, but a trace of caution threaded through it. "It implies you've encountered knowledge or entities that someone in your situation would not normally come across."
Anthony's eyes drifted toward the cracked horizon. "You could say that," he murmured.
Welt exhaled softly, adjusting his glasses. "As much as we'd like to understand how you came by that knowledge, our time is limited." His gaze shifted toward the scorched skyline. "The Stellaron remains our priority. Whatever answers lie in your past… they will have to wait."
Anthony's shoulders tightened, though he said nothing. He simply turned toward the distant crimson haze, where the faint hum of corrupted energy pulsed beneath the air like a slow, steady heartbeat.
Somewhere In The Cosmos — The Being
the void stretched endlessly. A horizon without shape or color, a place where even light had forgotten how to exist. The air—if it could be called that—shimmered faintly with the residue of creation long since abandoned. Fractured stars drifted through the dark, their glow muted, distant, as though afraid to shine too brightly.
And within that stillness, It stirred.
The Being hovered in the middle of it all, its form neither solid nor fluid. It was a paradox given shape: darkness that glowed, silence that spoke, a presence that filled the emptiness with meaning. Reality bent around it, the laws of space and thought softening into irrelevance.
A projection floated before it—a swirling sphere of red and gold mist. Within it flickered faint silhouettes of Anthony and the Nameless moving across the scarred surface of Thelha Ra'tha. The Being watched them, its faceless visage tilting with quiet intrigue.
"How utterly fascinating…" its voice murmured, echoing through the void like the low hum of the cosmos itself. "This Chosen One may actually leave its testing grounds…"
It leaned closer, though distance meant nothing here, its essence rippling through the darkness like ink dispersing through water.
"Against all odds," it continued softly, "the little flame still burns."
A thoughtful silence followed—ancient, amused, and impossibly patient. The Being's awareness drifted outward, toward something unseen far beyond this void.
Its form shifted, the faint outline of a humanoid silhouette surfacing for a moment. A hand—if it could be called that—rose to rest where a chin might have been, mimicking a gesture it had once seen mortals use when contemplating.
"Albeit…" the Being mused, its tone softening into something almost mirthful, "the Astral Express was an unseen variable in this."
The projection rippled. Images of Welt, March, and Dan Heng moved alongside Anthony through the fractured wasteland, closing in on the Stellaron.
"How on earth," it murmured, the word rolling off its tongue with faint amusement, "did Akivili's children find that place, I wonder? I could've sworn I cut off the Star Rail from reaching that world…"
The Being leaned closer again, folding the dark around itself. Its tone dipped lower—curious rather than concerned, like a scholar watching an experiment take an unexpected turn, "Fate has a peculiar sense of humor."
The mist sighed as Anthony glanced over his shoulder—small and fragile against the rift-streaked horizon—unaware of the thing watching him.
The Being's focus narrowed, the quiet ripples of the void sharpening like a drawn blade.
"Interesting…" it whispered. "Very interesting indeed."
For a moment it said nothing. Then the void tightened around its presence, and something colder entered the air—not cruelty, not impatience, but calculation. The mindset of a creature to whom entire worlds were pieces on a board.
"Perhaps I should place a wager," it said at last, its voice dropping like ice into still water. "I will terminate the other two billion I chose and stake the rest on this one experiment."
Its hand drifted through the mist. The projection stretched and wavered until only Welt's silhouette remained. The Being's amusement dimmed, replaced by something sharper, more analytical.
"The only problematic variable in this equation is him," it murmured. "Joachim Nokianvirtanen…"
It studied the man's still face, fingers curling as though tempted to crush the image entirely.
"He sees too much. Understands too quickly. If left unchecked, he might end things before they begin."
A quiet pause followed. Then, almost lazily:
"Should I rewrite the system's parameters? Adjust the protocol so Mister Joachim cannot ruin the final test?"
Its head tilted. Faint, knife-edge amusement returned.
"Tempting… but no. Interference dulls the outcome."
Welt's image flickered into static as the Being leaned back.
"If he truly poses a threat, then the system will adapt. Or Anthony will fail. Either result entertains me."
Its many eyes—or what passed for them—shifted toward the endless dark.
"Still… I do hope the boy surprises me. Akivili's remnants were always fond of defying the odds."
The projection shimmered, but the Being only watched it dissolve into scattered motes.
"Anthony Cloyne," it intoned, the name falling like a verdict into the hollow air, "do not disappoint me."
The threat was casual, almost affectionate—like a god warning a cherished pet not to ruin the floors. The void hummed around it, filled with the faint vibrations of possibilities waiting to be shaped or severed.
"Run," it murmured, amusement curling through its voice. "It will be fun to see how far you get before I come and get you… the fruit of my labor."
With a mere thought, the projection dissolved entirely. The Being turned away, its attention already drifting toward some new curiosity gleaming in the endless dark.
Thelha Ra'tha — Anthony And The Nameless
The world grew quieter the further they walked. The wind still moved, but it carried no warmth — only the sterile breath of a dead land. Above them, the sky burned a constant dull red, streaked with sluggish clouds that refused to disperse.
Anthony stopped atop a rise of charred stone. From here, the terrain sank into a vast depression — a scar carved deep into the planet's surface, stretching for miles.
He lifted an arm toward the valley below. "This is as far as I can take you."
March blinked. "What do you mean? There's nothing here."
Anthony stepped forward — and halted immediately. The air ahead rippled, like heat off metal, and a faint hiss of static whispered when his hand touched what appeared to be empty space. His expression remained steady, but his voice dropped.
"There's a barrier. Invisible, but real enough. I can't cross it."
Welt moved beside him, scanning the air. "Strange… I'm not detecting any sort of field that would prevent entry."
"That's because it's not meant for you," Anthony said quietly, withdrawing his hand. "It only reacts to me."
Dan Heng's brows lowered. "Why target you specifically?"
Anthony looked down the slope, remembering the system's words. "To… protect me, I'd say."
March tested the air with her palm. Nothing happened. She blinked. "It doesn't stop me at all."
Anthony nodded. "Would've been surprised if it did. Whatever put this here didn't want me going inside. Anyone else? No problem."
The group exchanged uneasy looks. Welt's gaze sharpened. "You've tried before."
"More times than I can count," Anthony admitted. "Every few months I'd see if anything had changed. Try to force my way through. But it always pushes me back." His eyes traced the warping shimmer ahead of them. "At first I thought it was fear. Or that I didn't really want to know what was inside. But after years of this… it's clear it isn't about what I want. The place itself rejects me."
"Rejects you?" March echoed. "Like you're an intruder?"
"No." Anthony shook his head, voice low. "If anything, I think it's trying to keep me alive. And before you ask — it's not the Stellaron. That much I know."
Dan Heng's tone tightened. "Then what is it?"
Anthony opened his mouth — and nothing came out. Not because he lacked an answer, but because something deeper refused to let the words surface. It had happened before: the moment he tried to explain the barrier, their attention would drift, their memories blur, as though the system — or perhaps something greater — scrubbed the truth from their minds.
He exhaled. "I've got theories. But I doubt any of them will make sense to you."
The ground lurched beneath their feet. A heavy tremor rolled through the wasteland, followed by a roar.
It wasn't human. It wasn't animal. It was vast and wrong — a guttural bellow warped by distance and distortion. The air vibrated with it, like a pressure wave pushing through their bones.
Anthony's head snapped toward the sound. For a moment his composure cracked, something like unease flickering behind his eyes. "Never heard anything like that… and I've heard a lot."
March stepped back, wide-eyed. "That came from in there, right?"
The echo faded, leaving behind only the low hum of Fragmentum energy. Welt turned to Anthony, voice even.
"Anthony. What can you tell us about the lifeforms on this planet?"
He rubbed his chin, recalling two decades of encounters. "Lifeforms, huh… not much left that counts as alive. But there's one thing you'll see more than anything else: Pyre Dogs."
"Pyre Dogs?" Dan Heng repeated.
Anthony nodded. "Besides me, they're the last real animals left. Flame runs along their backs — down the spine. You can see it through the dust before they jump you."
He crossed his arms. "Then you've got superior Pyre Dogs. Bigger. Meaner. Smarter. Their flames burn crimson. They plan. Hunt in coordinated bursts. Twice I've seen them lead whole packs — both times nearly killed me."
March shivered. "So they're… tactical?"
"They can be."
The wind hummed again, pulsing in time with the scarlet haze.
"And the last kind?" she asked.
Anthony's voice grew low. "The corrupted ones. Like the one you saw when we met."
His gaze drifted toward the crimson horizon. "That roar we heard… probably a superior Pyre Dog twisted by the Stellaron."
The air tightened. Even the dust seemed to pause.
"I see," Welt murmured. "A corrupted alpha could destabilize the entire region. And if the Stellaron has been feeding into it…"
"It's stronger than anything I've ever faced," Anthony finished. "If it survived this long, the corruption's been fueling it."
March swallowed. "So you're saying the worst possible version of something already awful is waiting for us?"
"Pretty much."
Dan Heng studied the horizon. "If it's guarding the Closure Zone, reaching the Stellaron will be difficult."
"And volatile," Welt added. "Environmental instability will compound the danger. The Stellaron's energy could be amplifying everything."
Anthony stared at the pulsing red scar in the distance. He spoke without thinking. "Well… it is the Cancer of All Worlds."
Silence.
Every head turned.
March frowned. "The… what?"
Dan Heng's calm fractured for a moment. Welt's eyes narrowed, the faintest shift of suspicion in his gaze. "You know that term? That is not common knowledge."
Anthony's stomach dropped. Too late. He forced a weak laugh, rubbing his neck.
"Twenty years alone out here. My memory's a mess. Half the time I don't know if something I 'remember' is real or just… something my brain made up."
March relaxed almost instantly. "Yeah… I'd probably start imagining things too."
Anthony didn't answer. The lie sat bitter on his tongue, heavy as the invisible presence that always erased what he tried to tell them.
Welt stepped closer to the barrier. "Anthony. Touch it again, please. I want to confirm something."
Anthony hesitated, then stepped forward. When his fingers brushed the distortion, the air shuddered. A dull hum rolled outward as blue light rippled across the invisible surface. It rejected him instantly.
He pulled back with a faint grimace. "Same as always."
Welt approached — but stopped well short of the threshold. He extended his hand; the distortion didn't react. His fingers passed through untouched.
"It reacts only to you," he murmured. "A selective ward."
March's face tightened. "So… not the Stellaron?"
"No," Welt said. "Something crafted with intent. Someone chose to keep him out."
Dan Heng nodded slightly. "Which means whoever made it anticipated his presence."
Anthony's jaw locked. "I tried everything. Tools. Weapons. Even just ramming myself against it. It won't move."
Welt stepped back from the distortion. "Then it is either protecting you… or containing you."
He turned to the others. "Regardless, the barrier allows us through. We will proceed, investigate the roar, and locate the Stellaron."
He looked back at Anthony. "And you stay here. For now. Whatever its purpose, forcing your way through could trigger consequences none of us can predict."
Anthony didn't argue. "Yeah. I know."
March's concern lingered, but he kept his gaze fixed on the barrier — at the way the light pulsed faintly at its center, almost like a heartbeat.
The wind howled once more across the dead plain.
And the world seemed to watch them breathe.
Thelha Ra'tha, Inside the Clousure Zone —The Nameless
The red mist deepened the further they descended, curling around the group like smoke from unseen fires. Every step inside the Closure Zone felt heavier—thicker. The air itself hummed with suppressed energy, the taste of iron and static clinging to their tongues. Even the ground seemed alive beneath their boots, pulsing faintly as though the land still breathed in strained, uneven gasps.
Welt paused to adjust his glasses, scanning the terrain with calm precision. "It's worse than I expected," he murmured, voice low but grim. "The Stellaron's corruption has seeped deeply into the environment. The gravitational and magnetic distortions fluctuate every few seconds… I wonder whether the Stellaron caused our failed jump, or if it's this planet—or both."
Dan Heng's gaze tracked across the scorched wasteland before he spoke, steady but edged with quiet curiosity. "Mr. Welt. What is your opinion on Anthony?"
Welt didn't answer at once. The question hung there, weighty. Even March stopped fidgeting to listen.
"My opinion?" Welt echoed finally. His eyes narrowed with thought. "He's an enigma. He knows things he shouldn't—terms like 'Aeons,' 'Pathstriders,' even details about anomalous energy systems. Yet he's utterly ignorant of basic cosmic structure. For someone isolated here for more than two decades… it shouldn't be possible."
March frowned. "So… you think he's lying?"
"No," Welt said. He surveyed the cracked earth ahead—fissures glowing faintly through the dust like veins of dying light. "Anthony is honest, in his own way. But his story has inconsistencies. His knowledge and his ignorance contradict each other in ways that don't match normal isolation."
March tilted her head. "Like what?"
Welt adjusted his glasses. The failing red glow glinted across the lenses. "This planet has been cut off from the universe. No communications. No data. No outside contact. By all accounts, Anthony should have no access to any modern terminology. And yet he used the term 'Pathstrider.' Only deep-level Aeon scholars or certain IPC sectors would recognize it. But Anthony doesn't even recognize the Astral Express. When he first saw our train, he reacted like it was… magic."
March nodded slowly. "Yeah… he stared at it for a long time. I thought he was just shocked to see people."
Dan Heng crossed his arms slightly. "So he knows things he shouldn't—but not the things he logically should."
"Precisely," Welt said. "Everything else about him aligns with long-term isolation. His instincts, the way he gauges threats, his movement—all of it matches someone who's lived alone in hostile terrain for years."
Dan Heng's tone softened. "Twenty years alone… returning to civilization, let alone the stars, would be difficult. He may not understand what he's seeing."
"True," Welt agreed. "But leaving him here isn't an option. If the Stellaron is this deeply rooted, this world will not remain stable once we complete the sealing. And as far as I can tell… he's the last human life remaining here."
March's face softened. "I can't imagine being alone that long… with nothing but monsters and ruins."
"Yet he survived," Welt said quietly. "His reflexes, the way he reads terrain—this is not instinct alone. It's conditioning."
Dan Heng turned. "You believe he was a soldier."
"I'm certain," Welt replied. "Every step he takes is measured. Every sound is analyzed before he reacts. That kind of awareness isn't self-taught. It's training." He paused. "And that only deepens the puzzle. His tactical sense is flawless… but his understanding of the universe is nonexistent. Then suddenly, he speaks of Pathstriders with absolute certainty."
March hesitated. "Maybe he's just… guessing?"
"No," Welt said. "There's precision in his selection of words. And hesitation before certain others. Something stops him from speaking. This is not improvisation. It's restraint."
Dan Heng's voice darkened slightly. "Or perhaps something is preventing him from revealing it."
"Perhaps," Welt murmured. "Either way, we'll learn more after the Stellaron is sealed. Then we bring him aboard the Express. At the Herta Space Station, we can examine his condition properly—if he agrees."
March swallowed. "And if he doesn't?"
"Then we convince him," Welt said simply. "He's been surviving for twenty years… not living. If we can offer him a path home, even a chance at it… I doubt he will refuse."
Silence settled over them, broken only by the faint mechanical hum of the distorted air.
Then Welt stiffened.
"Everyone. Stop."
The command sliced through the air. March froze. Dan Heng's grip tightened around his spear. Welt scanned the horizon. The red fissures beneath their feet flickered in rhythm with something deeper.
"We're surrounded."
Shapes moved between the fractured stones—shadows with glowing eyes, emerging with synchronized, predatory precision. Pyre Dogs, each step reflecting a kind of mechanical unity.
"Their coordination…" Dan Heng muttered. "It's nearly identical to Legion behavior."
The ground vibrated.
Then ruptured.
A burst of molten air tore upward as something massive heaved itself from below—a towering Pyre Dog, twice the size of the others. Its body was fused with bright crystalline channels, molten energy dripping from cracks in its armored hide. Embedded in its chest, half-swallowed by charred bone and glowing sinew, pulsed a fragment of blinding brilliance.
March staggered. "That's—!"
"The Stellaron," Welt finished. "It's merged with wildlife."
The creature screamed, a metallic, warped sound that shook the dust from the ground. Then—silence.
Until the pack charged.
Dan Heng leapt forward. Welt erected a barrier. March fired volley after volley of frost. But the superior Pyre Dog tore through their formation, regenerating faster than they could wound it, its Stellaron-fed veins knitting back together instantly.
Welt braced. He could end this—if he used his true strength. But the consequences… the Stellaron… the planet…
He couldn't risk it.
Then a gust tore across the field.
Anthony hit the battlefield like a blade of lightning.
His movements were brutal and fluid—survival refined into technique. His three-form strike hit the Superior Pyre Dog with a thunderous crack, launching the monstrous creature through a cliffside. The ground split in the wake of its impact.
For a moment, shocked silence.
Then the creature writhed, chest pulsing violently as the Stellaron inside reacted to the damage.
March gawked. "He just—he sent it flying—!"
Anthony exhaled slowly, lowering his blade. "The barrier finally dropped," he said. "Sorry for being late."
The Trailblazers regrouped. Welt stepped forward, eyes sharp. He raised his cane—gravity groaned, the air bending. A vortex swallowed the creature's remains, compressing the unstable Stellaron light into a neutral state. A miniature black hole formed, sealing it.
Silence fell over the valley.
Welt lowered his cane. "It's done. The Stellaron is sealed."
March let out a shaky breath. "Finally… I thought that thing was going to tear us apart."
Anthony stood apart from them, watching the fading light. There was no triumph in his eyes—only a weary quiet.
Welt approached. "You did well, Mr. Cloyne. We'll discuss the rest once we're back on the Astral Express."
Anthony blinked. "…'Back on the Astral Express'? What do you mean by that?"
March answered for him. "It's our train! It travels between worlds."
Anthony stared at her, confused. "A train… that travels between worlds?"
Welt nodded. "We're interstellar explorers—Trailblazers. We investigate anomalies like the one that destroyed your planet."
Anthony's eyes drifted to the sky—the fractured clouds, the dying light. "There are… other worlds out there?"
"Countless," March said softly. "And once we're done, you're coming with us. Back to civilization."
Anthony's voice shook. "Does that mean… you can take me back? To my world? My family?"
March hesitated. Welt stepped in.
"We'll do everything we can," he said. "If your home still exists—if there is even a trace left—we'll find it."
Anthony didn't answer. His gaze stayed on the sky.
For the first time in twenty years, hope didn't feel like a dream.
It felt like something painfully, terrifyingly real.