The Guild did not wait for mourning.
Before the first light hit the ash-crusted streets of Velith, the Iron Chorus were already marching — six divisions deep, every footstep syncing to the low pulse of the city's rebuilt rhythm. Each armored soldier carried resonance detectors glowing faint blue, their spines connected to portable Mirra conductors that hummed like restrained storms.
To the people, it looked like order returning.
To the Ninefold, it meant the world was closing in.
---
I — The Quiet Briefing
In the gutted remains of an old museum, Mael and what was left of his crew huddled around a makeshift map — half burned, stitched together with Raal's thread. A faint smell of copper and mold hung in the air.
Raal pointed at three red marks.
"Chorus patrols are converging here, here, and here. They're not random anymore. They've got patterns. Someone's feeding them our paths."
Lirra scowled. "We've lost two cities already. The kid's gone. Alen's gone. We keep running, we die tired."
"Then we stop running," Kest rasped, leaning against a broken plinth. His face was a mess of bruises and half-healed cuts. "We make them bleed for it."
"Bleeding doesn't fix rot," Mael said calmly.
He hadn't moved much since the shard's last pulse — the mark on his wrist now faintly glowing beneath his glove. His voice was still steady, but slower, as if his words were being chosen by someone inside his own mind.
Raal leaned forward. "Then what? We fight the Chorus head-on? They've got enough Mirra amplifiers to level this block."
Mael raised his eyes. "Not all of them. Some of them rely too much on their toys."
He reached into his coat and dropped a small metal capsule onto the table. It rolled and clicked open — releasing a faint hum that made Lirra's knife twitch in its sheath.
"What's that?" she asked.
"Bait," Mael said. "Mirra feedback condensed. They'll track it before they track us. We give them a trail worth dying for."
Lirra's eyes narrowed. "And when they follow it?"
Mael looked up, his expression almost amused.
"They meet me."
---
II — The Setup
Hours later, on the edge of the industrial district, Mael stood alone under the corpse of a bridge. Rust dripped from the girders, each droplet hissing as it hit the blackened puddles below. His coat swayed in the wind, his boots silent on concrete.
In the distance, a rhythmic clank-clank-clank echoed — the sound of the Chorus moving in perfect formation.
He smiled faintly.
From behind a collapsed tram car, Raal watched the trackers on his threads. The hum of the capsule had caught two pings — closing fast.
"Two leads," he whispered into his communicator. "Breaking formation. They're coming for the signal."
Mael didn't reply. He just took a slow breath and stretched his fingers.
The faint blue pattern of Mirra flickered in the air around him like the heartbeat of a dying machine.
---
III — The Arrival
They came quiet.
Two Iron Chorus elites stepped out of the fog — armor engraved with runes that pulsed faint gold, their helmets reflecting the broken city lights. One carried a spear shaped like a tuning fork; the other a curved blade that shimmered with compressed sound waves.
They saw Mael — unarmed, hands in his coat pockets — and stopped.
The first tilted his head. "Surrender, Null-class anomaly. Orders from Guild Command."
Mael smirked. "Orders are for people who think they matter."
The second raised his weapon. "You are outnumbered."
"Two isn't a number worth counting," Mael said softly.
The first charged. The air rippled. Mirra energy surged through the bridge, turning rust into liquid light.
Mael didn't move.
Then, almost lazily, he flicked two fingers.
Edge Pulse.
The ground in front of the attacker split like a fault line. The energy distorted, his own attack bouncing back, tearing through his leg armor. He fell mid-lunge — not screaming, just frozen in disbelief.
The second went for Mael's back, blade humming at sonic pitch.
Mael's outline blurred — Phase Mark. He stepped sideways out of his own body, the blade slicing through an afterimage. Before the soldier could recover, Mael reappeared at his flank, pressing a hand to his chestplate.
"You rely on rhythm," Mael said quietly. "I make it."
He snapped his fingers.
The soldier convulsed — the air around him vibrating violently, his own Mirra rhythm turning inward. His armor cracked. Then exploded.
The other one tried crawling back, hand reaching for his communicator. Mael crouched beside him.
"Your city will build more of you," Mael said softly, voice almost kind. "They'll even get your names right this time. But not your rhythm. That's mine now."
He pressed his palm against the man's helmet — the glow beneath his glove intensifying.
A low hum filled the bridge. The man's movements slowed, then stopped. The body shuddered once and went still.
The hum didn't fade.
Mael's wrist began to tremble — violent this time. He stood, staring at his hand like it was foreign.
Raal's voice crackled through the comm.
"Two signals down. You did it."
Mael exhaled, his tone flat.
"No. I reminded them how small they were."
He looked toward the city's distant towers. Each one glowed faint blue, flickering in rhythm with his pulse.
And for the first time, Mael wondered if the city was breathing with him.
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