Vice Principal Silver, a man whose face was etched with weariness, allowed a wry, tired smile to touch his lips.
"Rest assured, Principal, the programs are running. And," he added, his gaze sweeping across the grim-faced directors, "on a brighter note, we can at least take solace in the fact that we made the correct choice. When the dust settles, we will be in their good graces. The guardians will remember our cooperation."
He leaned back, the expensive leather of his chair groaning in protest. "It is far better to maintain a neutral, even beneficial, stance than to be perceived as an obstacle in their path."
His words, pragmatic as they were, caused another wave of heavy sighs to fill the room. No one could deny the cold, hard logic. The thought of facing Orion's unfathomable, reality-bending power, or Lyra's placid, merciless lethality, was a nightmare none of them dared to entertain.
Still, the sentiment was a bitter, jagged pill to swallow.
They were the architects of heroes, the gatekeepers of power and prestige in their Province. And yet, this overwhelming, paradigm-shattering force had not emerged from their hallowed halls or their brutal Crucible.
It had crawled up from the Sump, from the city's forgotten, lightless gutter, and had seized the heavens so quickly, so violently, that all they could do was stand aside and bear witness to the dawn of a new, terrifying age.
...
Meanwhile, the city itself was a raging firestorm of information and speculation. Every news channel, every online forum, every hushed street corner debate was dominated by two names that were now seared into the collective consciousness: Orion and Lyra.
Holo-screens, vast as building facades, flickered with their images—Orion's calm, confident gaze and Lyra's impassive, deadly stare plastered across every broadcast.
In virtual studios, analysts and pundits argued themselves hoarse, their voices a discordant cacophony of awe, speculation, and raw, undiluted fear.
"Is this the dawning of a new age of heroes, a force that will bring about an era of unprecedented peace?" one grim-faced analyst posited, his holographic image towering over the central plaza. "Or are we witnessing the rise of terrifying tyrants who will plunge our entire civilization into a new dark age?"
Another broadcast showed a panel of Talented experts engaged in a heated, almost violent, debate.
"This man, Orion, and his outrageous claim!" one exclaimed, jabbing a finger at the screen. "That he can shatter the C-Rank limit, a genetic and Aetheric barrier that has defined our society for centuries! That he can elevate a woman to B-Rank, simply by forming a 'profound bond' with her! Is this a revolutionary truth, or are these the honeyed, poisonous words of a lecherous villain with a hidden, truly insidious agenda?"
Of all the narratives spiraling out of control, this was the one that threw a lit match into the powder keg of society. It resonated on a deep, primal level, especially among the younger generation, for whom the rigid hero hierarchy was a fact of life.
Orion, despite the crude, dismissive language he had used during his public appearance, possessed an undeniable and dangerous magnetism. Where his sister was an overt threat, a blade unsheathed, he was a deep and silent ocean. His placid confidence held its own chilling elegance, and the sheer, overwhelming scale of his power only amplified that dark charm.
For young women across Zenith City, and even in the neighboring Provinces that received the broadcasts, he became an object of intense, almost feverish, fascination.
In cafes, they whispered over steaming mugs, replaying the clips of Elysia Wintercroft and Lisanna Vance standing proudly by his side, their auras radiating a power regular civilians and D-Rank Heroes could only look up to. They daydreamed, wondering if they, too, could be chosen.
Online forums exploded with discussions, with some even forming fan groups dedicated to him, speculating on who might be worthy of receiving his 'blessing'.
All the while, the young men—the ambitious, aspiring heroes who bled and sweated in dojos and academies across the nation—seethed. They watched the news with fists clenched so tightly their knuckles turned white, a toxic, corrosive cocktail of helpless envy and burning jealousy churning in their guts.
This once unknown man had taken two of the most desired and powerful noblewomen in the Province. He hadn't just stolen the spotlight; he had shattered their entire perception of how power was earned. For some, this envy curdled into something far darker. It twisted and festered, metastasizing into pure, unadulterated hatred.
And no one felt that hatred more keenly, more personally, than Ryan Sterling.
The self-proclaimed "Lightning Blazer," the vaunted star of his generation and a hero destined for the peak of C-Rank, was a man utterly transformed by his obsession. His luxurious, expansive penthouse suite, once a meticulously kept sanctuary of relaxation and pride, had become a pressure cooker of his spiraling rage.
The massive flatscreen TV, taking up an entire wall, blared continuously, a constant, looping stream of news reports about Orion and Lyra.
Every new segment, every casual mention of Orion's name, was a fresh stab in his gut, causing him to clench his fists so hard that his fingernails broke the skin of his palms. Thin, crusted trails of dried blood now stained his arms, a stark, physical testament to his decaying mental state.
He couldn't accept it. He simply, absolutely, could not accept it.
Elysia. His Elysia. The woman he was destined to marry, the shining pinnacle of his ambitions, had been utterly tainted, corrupted by that despicable, gutter-crawling villain.
"He's controlling her," Ryan muttered, his voice a low, gravelly rasp that was barely human. He paced his living room like a caged beast, his steps frantic and uneven. "That's the only possible explanation. His words are a venom that has poisoned her mind. He's a monster, a true villain that a hero—a real hero—needs to eliminate for the good of the world."
Slumped on the plush sofa, his friends Terris, Ed, and Jane exchanged weary, deeply concerned glances. They had been trying for hours to have a normal conversation, to talk about anything else, but Ryan's toxic, circular monologue kept dragging them back into the vortex of his delusion.
They knew, with a sinking certainty, that he was far, far gone.
Still, Terris felt compelled to try one last time. He stood up, holding his hands out in a placating gesture.
"Ryan, man, come on," he pleaded, his voice calm but strained at the edges. "You can't be serious. You keep saying this, but have you lost your mind? Did you see what they did to the peak Guards of the Valerian Family? To Collyer and Cassian, two among the strongest heroes in this city? Going against them isn't heroic; it's suicide."
"Tch." Ryan clicked his teeth, the sound sharp and vicious as a whip crack.
A different, wilder glint surged in his eyes, a spark of manic decision. He stopped pacing and swept a cold, contemptuous gaze over his friends, as if seeing them for the first time—and finding them wanting.
He practically spat the words out. "You know, you're right, Terris. You're absolutely right. All I've been doing is sitting here with my thumb up my ass, paralyzed by the fear of dying to this scum."
He took a step forward, his body beginning to crackle with faint, azure sparks of Aether, the static electricity in the room rising to an almost painful level. "But what kind of hero would I be if I let the mere threat of death stand in the way of justice? It's time to make a move."
"Ryan, no!"
"Don't be a fool!"
"Wait!"
Terris, Jane, and Ed all shouted at once, their voices a chorus of desperation, but their words dissolved into the ozone-scented air.
Ryan moved with the explosive speed of his namesake. He became a blur of blue-white lightning, a living thunderbolt that shot out of the living room and was gone from the penthouse in a literal, window-rattling flash.
Terris slapped his forehead with a loud, resounding smack, groaning in utter frustration. "This dumbass… this absolute, glory-seeking dumbass is going to get himself killed. And worse, he's going to drag his entire family down into the grave with him."
Ed, the more stoic and pragmatic of the group, crossed his arms, his expression grim as a tombstone. "Alright," he said, his voice heavy with finality. "We seriously need to think about how to handle him. And this… obsession. Because if Ryan goes down, we might as well go with him. Who knows? Those guardians might just decide to eliminate everyone even loosely affiliated with him as a precaution. They don't strike me as the type to leave loose ends."
Jane, who had been silent until now, let out a short, humorless chuckle that held no warmth. "Well, look at you two. Just when you're finally learning to be pragmatic, it has to be under the direct threat of instant and total annihilation."
She shook her head, a wry, tired look on her face. "Eh. Better late than never, I suppose."
Terris and Ed could only nod solemnly, the chilling, inescapable reality of their situation settling upon them like a funeral shroud. They had to find a way to stop Ryan, to somehow grasp control of his suicidal crusade before he dragged them all screaming into the abyss.
...
Far from the city's frantic energy and rising tensions, deep within the conquered Valerian Family manor, the atmosphere was one of rot and ruin.
Within the family's private med-bay, a chamber filled with cutting-edge technology that could regrow limbs and mend shattered organs, that humiliation was at its most concentrated and potent.
Days after his defeat, Collyer Valerian lay encased in a powerful regeneration chamber, the soft, monotonous hum of the machine a constant, mocking reminder of his utter failure. His grievous physical wounds were healing at an agonizingly slow pace, but the real damage lay far deeper.
His Aether Core, the very source of his power, his status, his entire identity, was a ruin. Whether from overtaxing it in a desperate, futile final stand or from the invasive, overwhelming purity of Orion's Aether, the core was riddled with microscopic fractures that no technology in Cascadia could ever hope to mend.
But even that agony paled in comparison to the mental torment. Every time he closed his eyes, the images replayed with perfect, torturous clarity: Lyra's bored, almost pitying sneer as she effortlessly vaporized his family's ultimate technique; Orion's placid, utterly condescending smile as he steamrolled their combined might without so much as breaking a sweat.
In the chamber next to his father's, Cassian was consumed by a volatile, feverish rage, an inferno fueled by the potent accelerant of his own narcissistic delusion. The healing process seemed only to stoke the flames of his hatred.
"FUCK!" he roared, slamming a fist against the reinforced glass of his chamber. The impact barely made a sound against the thick, Aether-infused material. "Monsters! They are villainous monsters, and all the so-called heroes of this city are tucking their tails between their legs and running! Hell, even the villains don't dare make a sound! This cannot be allowed to stand!"
At the sound of his son's pathetic outburst, Collyer's eyes slowly, painfully, opened. The unbridled fury was still there, burning in their depths like twin coals, but it was now tempered with a glacial coldness that could freeze fire itself.
"And where, precisely, will shouting and behaving like a wild animal get us?" he rasped, his voice rough and grating from disuse. "We were utterly and completely decimated. It is a simple, fundamental law of this world. No C-Rank province can ever hope to challenge the might of a B-Rank power."
"FUCK THE LAW!" Cassian roared back, his face a contorted mask of fury. "How can B-Rank be so overwhelmingly powerful?! We can't be the only ones who see them for the monsters they are! The other noble families… the Directorate… are they all just—"
"—damned, spineless cowards," Collyer finished the sentence, his voice dripping with a contempt so profound it was almost tangible. "Every last one of them is bending the knee. The Wintercrofts and Vances are feasting on our legacy like blood-sucking leeches, gorging themselves on our assets. And the Directorate… they always play the long game. They take the 'wait and see' approach when it concerns mere C-Ranks. Even with two B-Rank powers appearing out of nowhere, they are still only two individuals against an entire B-Rank Province's worth of resources and heroes. The Directorate won't intervene. Cascadia offers us no salvation."
He paused, a cruel, calculating light entering his eyes. "So, our only viable option is to look beyond our own borders. We must look to our neighbors."
"Neighbors?" Cassian's brow furrowed, the rage giving way to confusion. "The other Provinces?"
A nasty, twisted smile spread across Collyer's pale, drawn lips. "Our Republic of Cascadia prides itself on its advanced technology and its 'progressive' integration of the Talented. We have many unique accomplishments, yes. And yet, to the other world powers, our military is seen as soft, undisciplined, and decadent."
He savored the words, rolling them around his tongue like fine, poisoned wine. "The Republic of Ironhearth, for instance, holds a particular disdain for us. They are a people forged of the purest steel, of unbending tradition and absolute military might. To them, tradition is sacrosanct. The balance of power, the ancient hierarchy of those in charge, can never be permitted to change so violently, so chaotically."
The gears in Collyer's shattered mind were turning, weaving a new, intricate tapestry of vengeance from the threads of his hatred. "And it is precisely those kinds of people, the ones who value order and stability above all else, who will understand why it is imperative to exterminate these damn monsters before their chaotic, revolutionary influence can spread beyond our borders and infect their own."
"I see," Cassian breathed, the furious red in his face receding, replaced by the grim determination of a man who finally saw a path forward.
His hands clenched, not in impotent rage, but at the opportunity to restore what was lost, to violently return the world to its proper, predictable order.
Another thought, venomous and sharp, streaked into his mind. "Since we're at this point…" he muttered, "we might as well make use of that arrogant fool who was following that Wintercroft woman around like a lost puppy. Hmph. Ryan Sterling. His hatred for that Sump rat must be at its zenith by now. He could be a useful distraction at the very least."