Welcome to a new volume of the story!The journey is still just beginning, and every chapter I write is part of my learning as both a storyteller and a writer. This world keeps growing little by little, and I'm grateful to everyone who decided to follow it from the start.
There's still so much to improve, to explore, and to share — but that's what makes this process so exciting. Thank you for taking the time to read, to comment, and to support this project. Let's keep walking this path together, step by step.
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The air at the apex of Babel was thin and sweet, a nectar reserved for the divine. From her chambers, a sanctuary of silk, marble, and impossible luxury, the goddess Freya looked out upon her city. Orario sprawled beneath her like a living tapestry, its threads woven from the dreams and desires of a million souls. To her, it was a garden, and she was its discerning, eternally patient gardener.
Tonight, however, her gaze was not on the city. It was fixed upon a silver scrying basin, its surface shimmering not with water, but with liquid moonlight. Within its depths, a scene of brutal, calculated violence was unfolding on the 10th floor of the Dungeon.
She had felt the ripple of his arrival two months ago. A new soul had appeared in her garden, and it was unlike anything she had ever seen. Most souls shone with a distinct color, a hue granted by the Falna of their patron deity—the fiery red of a warrior, the serene blue of a mage, the verdant green of a supporter. They were beautiful, vibrant, but ultimately, they were all variations of the same light.
This one was different.
It possessed no color. It was a perfect, absolute grey. A void. A singularity of will forged in the heart of a dead star. When she first laid her divine eyes upon its impossible quality, a shiver of true, unadulterated desire had coursed through her being. It was the thrill of a collector discovering a piece so unique it defied categorization, a masterpiece that rendered all other works mundane.
She had watched him since. She watched his methodical purge of the upper floors, his recruitment of the broken boy, Lyd, and his silent construction of a hidden domain. She saw the soul of the boy, once a dim, flickering ember of despair, being painstakingly forged into something new—a cold, disciplined flame.
But this… this was the first true performance.
In the scrying basin, she saw the "Trial by Fire." She saw the disciplined movements of the four soldiers he had created, their souls burning with a unified, grey-tinged purpose. They were not adventurers seeking glory; they were extensions of his will, tools honed for a singular purpose.
And then she saw him move.
He was a phantom of grey and cobalt steel, a force of nature given form. His every action was stripped of excess, a symphony of lethal efficiency. The thunderous crack of his sidearm was not the sound of a weapon, but the percussion of a final judgment. The roar of his rifle was not a cry of rage, but the clinical hum of an extermination protocol.
The Hellhounds, beasts of fire and fury that sent shivers down the spines of mid-level adventurers, were not opponents to him. They were simply targets. Variables to be eliminated.
Freya leaned closer, her silver eyes alight with a predatory gleam. She ignored the tactical brilliance, the impossible weaponry, the sheer physical dominance. Her focus was on the soul within the armor. It did not flare with passion or excitement. It did not waver with fear or doubt. It remained a constant, an unwavering point of absolute resolve in a universe of chaos. It was the soul of a commander, a protector, a king who had built his throne not of gold, but of duty and sacrifice. A soul that led, not by divine right, but by the sheer, undeniable weight of its own existence.
And it had no Falna. This power, this leadership, this absolute will… it was all his own. He was a self-made god in a world of borrowed power.
The last Hellhound fell, its body torn asunder by a hail of kinetic fury. The Spartan stood amidst the carnage, a silent, monolithic titan. The performance was over.
Freya took a slow, deliberate sip of her wine, a vintage older than most mortal kingdoms. The taste was exquisite, but it did nothing to quell the hunger that now raged within her. She wanted him. She wanted to peel back the layers of steel and discipline, to gaze upon the raw, uncolored soul, to understand the furnace in which such a thing had been forged. She wanted to see it break, to see it bend, to see it burn for her.
"Ottar," she said, her voice a soft, silken whisper that nonetheless filled the vast chamber.
The shadows in the corner of the room seemed to deepen, to coalesce. From them, a mountain of a man emerged, his presence so immense it seemed to suck the very air from the room. His boar-like features were set in a mask of stoic, unwavering loyalty. He knelt on one knee, his head bowed.
[FOTO]
"My lady," his voice was a low rumble, like the grinding of tectonic plates.
"The one they call the 'Silent Reaper'," she said, her eyes never leaving the image of the Spartan in the basin. "The one in grey and cobalt. I have a task for you."
Ottar did not look up. "Name it."
A slow, dangerous smile curved Freya's lips. "I want you to test him. Find him when he is alone in the depths. Do not hold back. I want to see his limit. I want to see what it takes to make a soul like that… scream."
"As you command," Ottar replied without a flicker of hesitation. He rose, turning back toward the shadows. "He will be tested."
The shadows consumed him, and Freya was alone once more with the image of her new, magnificent obsession.
Back in the sterile silence of the workshop, the air was thick with the scent of ozone from the armor's strained systems and the metallic tang of dried monster blood. Lyd and the rest of Ares Team stood at a weary attention, their BDUs scorched and dented. They had survived.
The Spartan stood before them, his Mjolnir armor now locked into its maintenance frame. He was once again in his simple, dark fatigues.
"Report," he commanded, his gaze sweeping over each of them.
"Ares Team, mission complete," Lyd said, his voice hoarse but firm. "All hostiles neutralized. Bonus objective achieved; the Miach Familia members were secured with zero fatalities. Our team suffered no casualties, only minor equipment damage."
"Your performance was… acceptable," the Spartan stated. The words, coming from him, felt like the highest praise. "Ares Three, you hesitated. Your reaction time was 0.7 seconds slower than in the simulation. In a more complex engagement, that delay would have been fatal."
The young man flinched but nodded. "Yes, sir. It won't happen again."
"See that it doesn't," the Spartan replied. He then addressed the whole team. "You held the line. You followed orders under fire. You adapted, and you survived. Your performance has earned you the right to the next stage of armament."
He turned and gestured toward the main fabrication bay. "Follow me."
Confused but obedient, the team followed him. He accessed a terminal, and the large mechanical arm in the center of the bay whirred to life. Four weapon lockers, previously empty, rose from the floor. With a hiss of pneumatics, they opened.
Inside each locker rested a dark, brutally efficient-looking rifle and a heavy-set pistol. They were MA40 Assault Rifles and MK50 Sidekicks, the standard-issue workhorses of the UNSC.
"You have proven you can handle primitive kinetic weapons," the Spartan announced, his voice echoing in the workshop. "These are not primitive. This is the MA40. It fires a 7.62mm armor-piercing round in full-automatic. This is the MK50, the original, full-power version, not the bolt-projectors you have been using. They are precise, reliable, and lethal. They are not toys. They are tools of war, and they are now yours. You have earned them."
Ares Team looked from the incredible weapons back to their commander, a new, profound level of awe in their eyes. They hadn't just survived. They had graduated.
"Your training regimen will now include marksmanship and weapons maintenance," he continued, his tone leaving no room for celebration. "You will learn to be as proficient with these as you are with your own hands. Now, dismiss. Debrief with Cortana, then rest and refuel."
The team, buzzing with a mixture of exhaustion and exhilaration, finally dispersed. As they left, Cortana's avatar appeared beside the Spartan.
"Well, that's one way to boost morale," she quipped. "Christmas came early for Ares Team."
"They are no longer recruits," he stated, turning his attention to the after-action report. "They are soldiers. They will be equipped as such."
[URGENT MISSION COMPLETE]
[MISSION: Trial by Fire]
[All objectives met.]
[REWARD: +10,000 System Points, Title: [Crisis Responder], Unlock Option for Schematic [M392 Designated Marksman Rifle].]
"The DMR is now available to unlock," Cortana noted. "But more importantly, we need to talk about what's next. Your solo runs mapped the Dungeon to the 18th floor. The 'Silent Reaper' rumors are growing. This public rescue will only add fuel to that fire.
[PHOTO]
"Increased exposure was inevitable," the Spartan stated, pulling up a file. "The priority remains the same: increase our capabilities."
"About that," Cortana said, her tone serious. She displayed a file on the main screen, a file compiled from Gror's information, Roy's intel, and her own data analysis. At the top was a picture and a single, stark number. "Ottar. Level 7."
"The Boar," the Spartan said, his voice a low rumble.
"He is the benchmark, Chief," Cortana said. "The absolute peak of power in this city. Your performance against the alpha Hellhound was incredible, but based on my projections, a direct confrontation with him… the outcome is uncertain. His physical stats, granted by the Falna, could exceed the Mjolnir's operational limits."
The Spartan remained silent, his gaze fixed on the image of the stoic, powerful man.
"Your recruits are good, but they are still human," Cortana continued. "Even with battle rifles, their BDUs offer minimal protection against an opponent of that caliber. To face threats like him, and to ensure the survival of our personnel, we need a significant upgrade. We need to start the Prometheus Project."
The Spartan's eyes shifted on his status screen to the most expensive item available to him.
[ > [M805X Mjolnir Integration Suit] - Unlock Cost: 50,000 SP ]
"The Mjolnir integration suit," he said. "The black undersuit. It provides the neural interface and enhances the wearer's physical abilities even without the outer armor plating. It is the foundation of a Spartan."
"It's also our most ambitious project yet," Cortana warned. "Unlocking it is one thing. Fabricating it will require materials and precision tools our current workshop can't handle. And we'll need to train Ares Team to even survive the augmentation process required to use it."
"Then that is our new mission," the Spartan declared, his voice filled with a cold, unyielding resolve. "All future operations will be geared towards one goal: acquiring the resources and technology to equip our soldiers to fight and win against the gods of this world. Starting with their champions."
He was unaware that, high above him, a goddess had just set the wheels in motion to grant him that very test, far sooner than he could have ever anticipated.
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Thank you for reaching the end of this chapter.I'm still inexperienced and English is not my first language, so every bit of feedback helps me learn and improve. If you enjoyed the story, please consider leaving a comment, review, or a few Power Stones — your support really means a lot.