The dead of night was a liar. It promised peace but delivered only a different flavor of chaos. In the neon-drenched canyons of Zenith City, the public uproar of the past few days had finally simmered, condensing into a low, anxious hum that clung to the streets like a toxic fog.
But high above the city's restless heart, in the rarified, silent air of the Apex, a private storm still raged with the force of a hurricane.
On a rooftop garden, once a manicured paradise for some forgotten noble, there was only devastation. The air, thick with the scent of ozone and burnt roses, was a testament to a singular, focused fury.
Elegant stone benches lay shattered into gravel, their fragments scattered across scorched earth where carefully cultivated flora had been incinerated into black, skeletal husks. Branded into the concrete flooring were deep, fractal scars of obsidian glass, Lichtenberg figures that traced the violent, unrestrained paths of pure lightning.
At the epicenter of this self-inflicted ruin stood Ryan Sterling.
His chest heaved in ragged, desperate gasps, each exhale a plume of steam that vanished into the cool night. His tailored, state-of-the-art hero suit was torn and grimy, smeared with soot and his own dried blood. His handsome face, usually a picture of charming confidence, was now a twisted mask of sweat, filth, and raw exhaustion.
He couldn't remember how or when he'd arrived on this particular rooftop; the entire day had been a seamless, agonizing blur of white-hot rage. It was a continuous, torturous strain against the absolute, unyielding limits of his own power.
He had pushed his Aether Core until it screamed in protest, channeling and refining his energy with a frantic desperation he'd never known. It was a suicidal, single-minded crusade to shatter the C-Rank limit through sheer, indomitable force of will—a pathetic attempt to claw his way to a level where he might, just might, be worthy of standing in the same ring as him.
But even in the depths of his fury, Ryan knew it was a fool's dream. The gap between them wasn't a wall to be broken; it was a chasm, an abyss so wide and deep that his power felt like a flickering candle against an infinite, starless void.
This infuriating, absolute truth coiled in his gut like a serpent, its venomous bite driving his frustration to new, maddening heights with every failed attempt.
Finally, his legs buckled. He collapsed into a cross-legged position on the scarred concrete, the last vestiges of azure lightning that had danced across his skin sputtering into nothingness. He squeezed his eyes shut, feigning a meditative calm he was utterly incapable of feeling.
The effort was a lie. The only thing in his mind, the only thing he could see, was a single, repeating image that played on an endless loop behind his eyelids: Elysia Wintercroft. His Elysia. Standing beside that Sump-rat, her light tainted by his very presence, her power a gift from a monster.
A faint whisper of displaced air, a subtle drop in temperature too nuanced for any normal person to notice, broke his concentration. A shadow detached itself from the deeper gloom of a service entrance, landing with the silent, predatory grace of a hunting cat.
Ryan didn't need to open his eyes. The figure's Aether signature was a familiar needle in the city's vibrant tapestry—cold, sharp, and reeking of decay.
"Ryan Sterling," a voice said. The smug confidence that had once defined it was gone, stripped away and honed to the grim, lethal edge of a sharpened blade. "It seems that out of this entire city of sniveling cowards, you are the only one who hasn't lost his senses."
It was the Valerian agent. Ryan remembered him from before his family's catastrophic fall, a man whose arrogant assurance had been as much a part of his uniform as the family crest. That assurance was a ghost now, replaced by something far more dangerous: a chilling determination forged in the fires of utter humiliation.
"My masters have seen your grief," the agent continued, his voice a low, conspiratorial murmur that slithered through the quiet rooftop. "It is painfully obvious that you, a true hero, seek to free Young Lady Elysia Wintercroft from the clutches of the monster who has enthralled her."
The name was a key turning in a lock, releasing the full force of his contained rage. Ryan's eyes snapped open. They were no longer the confident pools of azure that graced the covers of hero magazines. They were wild, electric storms. Furious arcs of Aether, raw and untamed, crackled to life around his clenched fists, illuminating his face in a ghastly blue light.
"What the fuck do you want?" he snarled, the words tearing from his throat like shredded metal.
The agent didn't flinch. His gaze remained level, his expression a mask of cold, unwavering purpose. "The same thing you do, hero. Justice. An end to the two villains who should have never been allowed to crawl out of the Sump, let alone defile our Province with their filthy existence."
He took a deliberate step closer, invading Ryan's space, his voice dropping into a near-whisper. "And we are connecting with allies who can help us achieve this. Allies with the strength and, more importantly, the will to do what must be done. Allies that come directly from the Ironhearth Province."
The name hung in the ozone-laced air. Ironhearth. Even through the thick haze of his rage, Ryan's mind dredged up the common perception of the neighboring C-Rank Province. A nation of rigid traditionalists, military fanatics who valued hierarchy and brute force above all else. A place he had once dismissed as backward and brutish, a stark, uncultured contrast to Cascadia's technological elegance.
But now… now their unbending, fanatical nature seemed like a virtue.
"They have a foolproof solution in mind," the agent pressed, seeing the flicker of violent consideration in Ryan's eyes. "And we believe a righteous, powerful hero such as yourself will provide invaluable assistance in ensuring this plan is a success."
Ryan paused for only a single, shuddering heartbeat. The part of him that was a hero, the part that believed in rules, honor, and due process, was a distant, dying ember, smothered by the inferno of his obsession.
All that remained was the fire.
The path didn't matter. The allies didn't matter. The only thing that mattered was the destination: a world where Orion lay broken and bleeding at his feet, and Elysia was his once more.
With a deep sigh that seemed to drain the last of his energy, he gave his answer. "Tell me what I need to do."
A nasty, triumphant grin curled the agent's lips, a grotesque expression on his grim face. "Excellent. The meeting will be arranged very soon."
...
Provinces were worlds unto themselves, vast territories of glittering cities, sprawling farmlands, and untamed wilderness that stretched for hundreds upon hundreds of miles. To the average citizen, the idea of leaving their Province was as foreign as flying to the moon.
The territories between were known simply as the Broken Wastelands—unpredictable, hostile lands warped by ambient Aether, home to nightmarish beasts that defied classification and environmental hazards that could shred an unprepared traveler to atoms.
Yet, for those whose power allowed them to challenge the heavens, borders were merely suggestions. The highest-ranking heroes of every Province had, over generations, carved out and maintained a network of safe passages and fortified zones. These were neutral grounds, sterile pockets of civilization in the heart of primal danger, where inter-Provincial politics and trade could be conducted.
It was in one such zone, a sterile dome of polished chrome and reinforced plas-steel nestled in a valley of petrified, crystalline trees, that the meeting took place.
The contrast between the two arriving parties was absolute, a stark visual representation of two warring ideologies.
From one side came the Cascadians. Led by a physically recovered but spiritually shattered Collyer Valerian, they were a vision of fallen opulence. Their Aether suits were sleek, custom-designed works of art, shimmering with a pearlescent light that seemed to mock their broken pride. Their confidence was a fragile, paper-thin facade, a desperate attempt to project the power they no longer possessed.
From the other, the Ironhearth contingent emerged from an armored transport vehicle that looked more like a mobile fortress than a transport. They were a stark vision of brutal functionality. Their combat gear was forged from heavy, interlocking plates of Aether-infused charcoal steel, each piece glowing with the faint, crimson aura of raw, disciplined power. They didn't walk; they marched in perfect, unnerving synchronicity, their heavy boots clanking against the chrome floor with the rhythm of a war drum.
Leading them was a man who seemed carved from granite and fury. Director Valerius Kane was an imposing giant, his sheer stature casting both a literal and metaphorical shadow over everyone present.
His hair was a severe cut of iron-grey, and his gaze was terrifyingly sharp, dissecting everything and everyone it fell upon with cold, analytical precision. He exuded an aura of supreme, unquestionable command, a man born to lead armies and crush nations.
Kane's eyes flicked dismissively over Cassian, Ryan, and the other Valerian guards, his expression one of profound contempt, before landing squarely on Collyer. He met the man's gaze, a king addressing a deposed lord.
"Patriarch Valerian," Kane began, his voice a low rumble that vibrated in the chest. "The situation that has arisen in your Province is… unfortunate. It will not be long before these unregistered, chaotic elements destabilize your entire society and eventually threaten the stability of us all."
"Chaotic elements?" Collyer sneered, the word dripping with a venom so potent it could have corroded steel. He spat on the sterile chrome floor, a crude gesture of his deep-seated hatred. "Those two are villainous monsters, Director. Abominations. They are the prime example of why the Directorate exists, why there are iron-clad rules for power. They have no right to possess what they hold, and their unchecked arrogance is a cancer that must be excised."
Kane gave a slow, deliberate nod, his expression unchanging. "For once, Patriarch, our nations are in complete agreement."
He gestured dismissively with a gauntleted hand, a motion that encompassed all of Cascadia's perceived weakness. "Now then, let's cut to the chase, shall we?"
At his signal, every eye in the room focused. The air grew thick with anticipation, heavy with the weight of vengeance.
"My Province does not possess the… esoteric technologies of yours," Kane said, the word 'esoteric' sounding like a vile insult. "We focus on the pure, practical applications of Aether. The art of war. As we are now, it is impossible for any of us to fight a B-Rank head-on. However," he paused, letting the weight of his words settle like a death shroud, "we can change the rules of the battlefield."
He gestured to an aide, a woman whose movements were as precise and deadly as his own. She brought forward a large, lead-lined case, setting it on the meeting table with a heavy, final thud. As she unlatched it, a strange, dissonant hum filled the air—a discordant, nauseating note that grated on the senses and vibrated deep within the bone.
Inside, nestled in thick, black foam, was a complex device. It was a large, metallic sphere covered in intricate, spiraling runes that seemed to absorb the light around them, creating a vortex of absolute shadow at its core.
"This is…" Collyer began, narrowing his eyes as a wave of sudden, inexplicable weakness washed over him.
He didn't need to finish. Everyone on the Valerian side felt it instantly—a profound, unsettling lethargy, a leaden weight pressing down on their Aether Cores, making them feel sluggish, muted, and terrifyingly mortal.
A faint, chilling smile touched Kane's lips, a mere twitch of muscle that held no warmth.
"We call it the Siren's Lament," he explained, his eyes glinting with cold satisfaction. "When activated, it emits a unique resonant frequency that agitates the Aether in the atmosphere on a quantum level. It doesn't destroy the Aether, you understand. It simply makes it incredibly difficult to draw upon and control. To a Talented individual, it feels like trying to breathe underwater. The higher their rank, the more Aether they command, and thus, the more disorienting and debilitating the effect becomes. And before you ask," he added, holding up a small, metallic disk, "we naturally have devices that can shield you from these effects."
A beat of charged silence followed as Collyer processed the horrifying implications. "Such a device is… unusual for your traditionalist ideals," he probed, suspicion lacing his tone. "You seem to have kept this quite hidden from the Directorate."
Kane's face didn't so much as twitch. "Are you not the same, Patriarch? From what I can gather, your 'Water Guardian' combat robot was quite the surprise to your own people before it was so unceremoniously dismantled."
Collyer gave a low grunt, waving the jab aside. He leaned forward, his entire focus consumed by the shadowy sphere. "And you mean to tell me that this… thing… can bring those two abominations down to our level?"
"Precisely," Kane confirmed, his voice dropping to a low, predatory growl. "The plan is simple. During the upcoming Crucible exhibition at the Aegis Academy, when they are at the center of the world's attention, you, Patriarch Valerian, will provide the distraction. Your forces will stage a perimeter breach. An old grudge against the academy for harboring your enemies, perhaps. In the ensuing confusion, my team will activate the Siren's Lament. The field will envelop the entire academy grounds. Their overwhelming power will be choked off at the source."
His eyes burned with a cold, zealous fire as he looked from Collyer to Ryan, sealing their dark pact. "And then, it will be very simple. The heroes of Ironhearth will join forces with the noble Valerians to take the initiative, stopping the monsters where Cascadia as a whole so completely failed. Such a decisive, heroic event will undoubtedly reach the eyes of the Directorate and our neighboring B-Rank Provinces. We will not just kill two upstarts. We will restore the order you have lost."