Dead bodies turned into hollow carcasses, some melting into goo. The battlefield stank of death, and things were looking bad for the warriors. But then came the command—
"Sync Opening – Level 1!"
With new weapons in their hands, their spirits ignited.
Alfred roared, charging into battle. His weapon, engraved with glowing shard inscriptions, burned in his grip. The sound that tore out of his chest was so fierce it felt like it could drag the dead from their graves to fight beside him. His movements were sharp, flawless—without a single mistake.
He remembered his master's words:
"Listen, kid. What you're reading isn't some ordinary manual of fighting spirit. It's one of the deadliest, hardest techniques to master. Focus, and your spirit will burn like fire. One of the Eighteen Pioneers himself wrote this."
Alfred had heard the scolding plenty of times—
"1, 2, 1, 2, 3, 1—wrong! Read those books properly, you dumb brat!"
"Again! 2, 1, 3, 4, 1, 2—do it right!"
But then, once in a while, came the calm voice—
"I know it's hard, but this fighting style matters. When you move with the rhythm, your heart syncs with the inscriptions. That's when you get the power to burn the enemy."
Now, in the heat of battle, Alfred murmured the rhythm under his breath. Step, strike, turn, reset. Again, and again.
And then the fire came. Flames erupted from his weapon, wrapping around him. Each movement was a dance in the inferno, untouchable.
Behind him, Suyash moved in with his katana. Blow after blow, he parried with ease. Then—his own Sync opened. In an instant, he vanished from the Rakshasa's sight. The beast, already struggling with Alfred's fiery assault, couldn't track him.
A perfect distraction.
Alfred roared and struck again, cutting deep, burning one of the Rakshasa's arms clean off.
Suyash reappeared like a whirlwind. His katana carved lines across the monster's flesh before he disappeared again. The air warped, swirling into a vortex around Alfred and the Rakshasa. The beast twisted, confused, unable to sense.
At the back, Miya stood still—spear coated in poison, eyes sharp, waiting.
Alfred and Suyash's teamwork enraged the Rakshasa. In desperation, it spewed its black mist again. But this time the swirling winds held the poison in. Alfred leapt free, shouting confirmation. Suyash clenched his jaw and tightened the vortex. The mist was forced back into the Rakshasa's lungs. The beast convulsed violently, choking on its own corruption.
At HQ, someone shouted:
"It's not the Rakshasa producing the mist—it's the larvae hanging outside its coat! Look! It inflates first… it was never inhaling—it was holding its breath!"
Now it was forced to inhale. And its insides melted.
Miya's eyes lit with resolve. She activated her Sync. Smooth and steady, her body moved like calm water reflecting the moon. Then she shot forward, spear blazing like a missile.
The strike was perfect. The spear pierced the Rakshasa's hide. Poison surged in. With a twist of her wrist, she left the spearhead buried inside. She pulled back, caught another head, snapped it onto her pole.
Suyash and Alfred retreated.
All eyes turned to the monster. The poison ate at its insides. The mist burned it from within. Its vertical mouth opened wide, screeching as endless tentacles spilled out. Finally, its body sagged and collapsed, melting into a heap. Only its skin with thick fur remained intact. Larvae spilled out. The Suraks charged, slaughtering and collecting them.
Exhausted, the three commanders finally slumped down. A Surak brought a liquid, which they gulped greedily. But the backlash came fast.
Alfred collapsed, veins bulging as his body locked up.
Suyash grabbed his head, agony stabbing through his skull.
Miya froze where she stood, her body numb and stiff.
Nearby, younger Suraks whispered:
"Hey… aren't they only second-years? How the hell did they unlock Level 1 Sync?"
"Miya and Alfred are both geniuses. And Suyash… he's already over Level 75. They're just built different."
"I envy them. But honestly, I'm glad we're only support. Just look at them—Sync backlash is brutal."
"Yeah. At higher Sync levels, first thing you learn is to endure the recoil. If they had six more months of training, they wouldn't be suffering this much."
Their chatter was cut short—
SMACK!
A senior cracked his fist on one's head.
"Enjoying your little gossip while the battlefield's a mess?" he roared.
"Get to work!"
After the battle, the Union resumed its work, just as it had been doing for the past four hundred years—covering up the traces.
Now that technology had advanced, the task had become much easier for the Union to manage. A massive flying ship, lined with HSAW robots attached along its hull, soared toward Mt. Akash Chumbi. Inside, a lone officer began loading a complete map of the mountain into the computer—everything in detail carefully recorded.
One after another, the HSAW robots—sleek, white, and humanoid in appearance—detached from the ship and descended toward Mt. Akash. Heavy drones carrying box-like containers followed closely behind, each packed with tons of specialized material.
Upon landing, the robots began their work with precision. They scanned the area thoroughly, every inch of the terrain, sending real-time reports back to the ship. Once the data was confirmed, the system transferred it into the reconstruction software, and the restoration process officially began.
The robots opened the crates and unloaded their contents. Piece by piece, they assembled new structures to camouflage the battle scars. Trees were reconstructed from nothing, grown from synthetic bases and fused with the shattered remains of real trunks. Within hours, the material hardened and adopted the same texture and colour as natural bark.
Rocks were fabricated, new soil was spread over the burned patches, and layer by layer the mountain began to resemble its original state. It was never a perfect replication—perhaps eighty to ninety percent at best—but the Union's goal was never perfection, only concealment.
When their tasks were completed two days later the drones descended once again, attaching themselves to the backs of the HSAW units. At the command signal, the drones lifted the robots into the air and returned them to the ship hovering above.
Meanwhile, down below, civilians were finally being released from the Carriers. For two long days they had been confined to quarters, waiting under the false pretence of safety. The Union had told them a dangerous gas leak had erupted in Mt. Akash, forcing an urgent evacuation. None of them realized the truth—that it was merely another lie, carefully designed to cover up the battle.
Children, full of relief and excitement, broke into a run as soon as they touched solid ground. Some sprinted straight toward the mountainside, where they spotted the drones lifting the robots away. They shouted, waved, and cheered, their small hands raised high in gratitude and wonder, believing the machines had saved them.
The adults, however, were less forgiving. Some cursed the Union loudly, angry over the discomfort and loss of work they had endured. Others muttered bitterly about the forced evacuation. A few were content to simply return home, grateful that life could continue, while some quietly worried about tomorrow—their jobs, their families, and the future that never seemed secure.
Mt. Akash itself was declared off-limits for the next three to four days. Officially, the reason given was "public safety and the danger of unstable terrain." In truth, the Union needed time for the repairs and fabrications to settle, and for their machines to ensure nothing suspicious remained. Every day, the bots scanned the site relentlessly, patching flaws in their cover.
All of this unfolded on one side of the Union's operations. But on the other side, far from public eyes, Shaurya found himself in deep trouble.
The scientists of the Union had begun to doubt him. The Shard of Preservation he gave them—though faint and very small—resonated undeniably with the Shard of Creation. That resonance could not be fabricated, nor could it be dismissed outright. And yet, suspicion lingered.
Doubt is man's nature, after all; when reality refuses to align with his expectations, he rejects the truth.
Thus, suspicion turned into interrogation.
The Union had begun its quiet pursuit, determined to uncover what Shaurya was hiding.
To be continued…