The city glowed like a festival lantern in the night. Strings of light draped from tower to tower, weaving a golden net over Aegis Prime's heart. The air was alive with sound—cheering crowds, hawkers selling skewers that smoked with spice, the rhythmic thrum of drums blending with synthesized music pouring from speakers mounted high above the plaza. Drones drifted lazily in the air like mechanical fireflies, streaming the celebration across every screen in the city.
Children ran wild between their parents' legs, capes trailing, faces painted with the symbols of their favorite heroes. Some carried toy hammers almost larger than their bodies; others waved lightning-shaped glowsticks, their shrieks rising in a chaotic chorus of joy. The air smelled of sugar, fried dough, and ozone. Fireworks clawed across the sky, painting it in arcs of violet and gold, the reflections caught and multiplied in the glass towers that stretched into the night.
For most, it was paradise.
For Asol, it was noise.
He stood at the edge of the festival, leaning against the railing that overlooked the lower streets. The laughter, the colors, the music—it all felt like a dream he had no part in. He let the cheers wash over him, hollow and distant.
He tried to imagine Fujiwara here. She would've been laughing, her eyes wide at the fireworks, her voice carried away with the songs of the crowd. She would have loved this world's light.
His mouth curved faintly. Then the smile broke.
If I'd done better… maybe she could've been here too.
The thought cut deeper than the music could reach.
He then heard a sound. It was not the pounding bass of music, not the shrieks of children, not the crack of fireworks. A whisper. Soft, deliberate. It curled against his ear like smoke.
As he turned sharply, he saw the little girl.
She stood at the far end of the walkway, half hidden by the shadow of a vendor's stall, half bathed in the neon lantern glow. Her dress hung ragged and thin, as though it hadn't been washed in years. Her hair, black and limp, curtained her face, but her eyes…
Her eyes glimmered crimson.
Asol's chest tightened.
"You again…"
The girl tilted her head, gaze steady, neither smiling nor scowling. Just watching. Then she turned and walked away, slipping into the tide of bodies as if the crowd wasn't even there.
"Wait!"
He pushed off the railing, boots scraping against stone as he surged forward. He shoved through the mass of people, weaving between drunken revelers and shrieking children, his eyes locked on the flash of her tattered dress.
She was always just ahead. Close enough to see. Too far to catch.
"Asol!" a voice called from somewhere behind him. Aoi, probably, waving him back toward the music. He ignored her.
He pushed harder. The fireworks flared overhead, blinding him for a breath, and when his vision cleared the girl was gone. His pulse spiked. He spun, desperate, until movement flickered in the corner of his eye.
There.
She slipped into a narrow alley between two glowing food stalls.
Asol cursed and followed, skidding around the corner.
The alley was empty.
No child. No footsteps. Only shadows clinging to the cracked walls, trash piled high in the corners, and the reek of rot. His breath rasped in his throat, anger and unease tangling inside him.
He was about to turn back when he noticed it.
A vent.
The grate hung crooked, propped open by a jagged bar of rusted metal. A faint draft of air hissed through it, stale and damp. The edges were scuffed. Too small for a man. But for a child…
Asol crouched.
"She really went in there…?"
His better judgment screamed to leave it. To go back to the lights and the noise and pretend he hadn't seen her. But the memory of her crimson eyes burned in his mind, and the gnawing pull in his chest told him he couldn't walk away.
He took a breath, adjusted his shoulders, and shoved himself inside.
The vent was tighter than he expected. Rust scraped against his jacket, the air thick with mildew and grease. Every breath echoed like a hiss of metal. His prosthetic arm sparked faintly as it scraped the ribs of the tunnel, the sound grating in the silence.
His pulse thudded. The walls pressed in until he could barely move his chest to breathe.
This is insane…
He muttered it under his breath, but the words did nothing to slow the growing panic clawing at him.
And then—gravity shifted.
The ground vanished beneath him.
"Shit—!"
He plummeted, metal screaming around him as he slid down a slick, spiraling shaft. Darkness swallowed him, spinning, until a sudden burst of light seared his eyes—
And he crashed.
Hard.
He landed in muck. Thick, rancid slurry splashed across his face, clinging to his clothes, gagging him with its stench. He staggered upright, coughing, wiping his sleeve across his mouth. The smell of mold and waste clung to him like oil.
And then he froze.
The world around him… wasn't Aegis Prime.
It was hell.
An underground cavern stretched vast as any stadium, lit by buzzing lamps strung weakly along the ceiling. Hundreds—no, thousands—of figures moved below. Men, women, children. All of them gaunt, their bodies skeletal with hunger, their clothes in tatters. They swung pickaxes against walls that pulsed faintly with Aura-rich ore, the sound of metal on stone ringing endlessly.
And above them, watching, were heroes.
Not the smiling paragons plastered on banners. Not the saviors the crowd adored. These wore the same emblems, the same uniforms—but their faces were twisted. Cold. They barked orders, shoved workers with armored gauntlets, and when someone stumbled too slowly, they lashed Aura-whips across backs until the air split with screams.
Asol's stomach lurched. His throat closed.
"No… no, this can't…"
His mind reeled. The perfect world above. The despair below. How long had this existed? How deep did the rot go?
Movement drew his eyes.
The girl.
She stood at the edge of the muck pile he'd landed in, her crimson gaze steady. Without a word, she reached out her hand.
Asol stared at it, disbelief twisting in his chest. Her hand looked small, fragile. But when he took it, her grip was unyielding, pulling him upright with strength no child should possess.
"…Thank you," he muttered.
She said nothing. Only turned, gesturing with a thin arm for him to follow.
His instincts screamed to stop, to run, to fight—but there was no way back. The vent above was gone. The miners' eyes were on him now, hollow and desperate, following his every step.
So he followed.
They walked through rows of broken bodies hacking at stone with bleeding hands. The clink of picks echoed like broken music. Children too weak to swing tools were forced to carry buckets of ore heavier than their frames. A boy collapsed in the dirt, only for a whip to crack across his back, dragging him to his feet again.
Asol's fists trembled. His prosthetic buzzed faintly, sigils glowing dim against the cavern's shadows. Rage surged in his chest, begging to be unleashed. He took a step forward—
The girl turned.
Her crimson eyes locked on his. She shook her head once.
And he stopped.
The restraint tasted like blood in his mouth, but something in her gaze—steady, knowing—rooted him in place.
So he walked on.
Whispers followed him.
"Who is he…?""…Not one of them…""Look at his arm…"
He ignored them, jaw tight, chest burning with every lash that cracked the air.
At the cavern's edge, a small hut waited. Barely more than planks nailed together, leaning against the rock like it was too tired to stand. The girl stopped at its threshold, turned, and gestured softly.
"You want me to go in?" he asked.
She nodded once.
He hesitated, breath trembling, then pushed the door aside.
The hut's interior was bare. No furniture. No decoration. Only a single woven mat laid on the stone floor. And on it sat an old man.
His body was frail, his skin paper-thin over bones, but his posture was upright, proud. His hair, long and silver, framed a face carved with lines of sorrow and endurance. His eyes were clouded—blind. Yet when his head turned toward Asol, it felt like the man saw everything.
"You've finally come."
The voice was cracked, dry, but carried like a bell through the silence.
Asol swallowed.
"Come…?"
The old man inclined his head.
"Liberator."
The word fell like stone.
Asol's breath caught.
"…What did you call me?"
"Liberator," the old man repeated. "The one who will break the chains. The one the surface has blinded itself to. We have waited… and now you stand here."
Asol's fists clenched.
"You've got the wrong guy. I'm no liberator. I'm barely surviving myself."
The old man smiled faintly, the lines of his face deepening.
"All liberators say the same. That is why they are chosen."
Asol stepped forward, anger bleeding into his voice.
"Chosen by who? For what? To see this?" He gestured wildly to the cavern outside. "Heroes—heroes—enslaving people under their perfect city? And no one knows?"
The old man's cloudy eyes sharpened.
"Oh, they know. The ones who shine brightest always cast the longest shadow. The citizens above prefer not to see. It is easier to cheer than to question. Easier to trust symbols than to face truth."
Asol's chest twisted.
"This… this can't be Providence's doing. He—he spoke about unity. About hope. About people and heroes being one."
The old man's tone cut sharp as steel.
"Words are the cheapest chains of all."
The girl stepped closer to Asol's side. For the first time, her lips moved. A whisper, soft but clear:
"Liberator."
Asol staggered back, his prosthetic arm flaring with light, sigils pulsing like a heartbeat. His breath hitched.
"What did you just say?"
The old man bowed his head slightly.
"Because you carry contradiction in your soul. A survivor of worlds. Aura torn and remade. You are not of this place. You see what they cannot. You question what they worship. And in that lies true freedom."
The silence pressed heavy as the truth settled like chains around Asol's shoulders. He wanted to deny it. To scream that it wasn't his responsibility. That he'd already failed one too many times.
But outside, the miners' eyes still watched him. Hollow. Desperate. Waiting.
The old man's voice lowered to a whisper.
"The surface is a stage. The heroes are actors. But down here, the script is written in blood. And you, Liberator… you are the only one not bound to play a part in their charade. They are all-"