In the Northern Continent, better known as Fee Continent, deep in the Kingdom of Iskra and tucked into a small region called Goldenwake, the Ironclad Warden stood alone in the cold hall. Him and his crew were in FLEX Five, laying low for the time being. He was lean and muscular beneath the damage, his body a map of violence and discipline rather than bulk. His knuckles were scarred from decades of battle. Dark, intricate tattoos coiled across his chest, shoulders, and arms, dragons and scales in flowing lines that followed muscle and bone as if they had grown there naturally. His hair was short, black, and spiked. His expression remained calm, almost bored, but his eyes never rested. An open black robe, cut like a kimono, sat pushed back from his shoulders, exposing his torso. A red sash secured it loosely at the waist, and a sword rested across his shoulder. The arena broadcast flickered across the wall-sized crystal before him. Solace threw guards aside, defied a king, and lifted children as if they weighed nothing. He exhaled slowly and gave a measured nod, more calculation than amusement. "Trouble," he muttered, wiping sweat from his jaw.
He sheathed his sword and called for his prime, Roman Kompta. A moment later, Kompta strolled up to the door with his hands in his pockets, dressed in an all-black fleece tech suit with POWER stamped in red on the left chest and left thigh, a white shirt peeking through where the fleece sat slightly unzipped, and bright red shoes that looked deliberately loud against all that black. He was dim-skinned and completely hairless, no eyebrows at all, his bald head polished to a clean shine."Double the drills. If this girl's starting a storm," he said evenly, "we don't get caught under it."He didn't say a word. He just slipped his hands out of his pockets, gave a two-finger salute, then turned and walked out.
In FLEX Ten, in the Kingdom of Dravayne, deep in the Blacktund region, the War Apostle sat perfectly still on a stone seat, his sword laid across his knees. Outside, the land ran on in wide, empty acres, farmland stretching until the fences vanished, homes spaced miles apart like they were trying not to know each other. Sheer physical dominance radiated from him, overwhelming and immovable. Massive did not begin to describe him. His body was thick and layered, brutal muscle packed beneath scarred flesh, every mark earned through merciless training, war after war, campaign after campaign. His arms were enormous, veined and marked with red-black patterns that looked ceremonial. A heavy, rope-like necklace circled his neck, thick as a chain, resting against a chest built to absorb impact. Metal bracers reinforced wrists already capable of crushing bone. He wore a patterned skirt-like garment bound by a thick red rope belt. Sandals were strapped over feet that looked rooted to the ground. His face was fierce and animalistic, framed by a heavy beard and hair pulled back tight. A horn-like ornament rose from his head, sharpening his silhouette into something almost monstrous. He did not look angry, he looked ready, as though violence were simply another state of being. Solace appeared on the broadcast, jumping, striking, defying. His expression did not change, but his grip on the sword tightened. He stood slowly, lifting the massive blade with one arm. "A woman?" he scoffed. "Changing the world?" He rested the sword against his shoulder, eyes narrowing. "No woman will be the symbol of this age," he said coldly. He turned toward the exit. "If the world thinks she'll lead, I'll put an end to that delusion myself." He left the hall with the confidence of a man who had never been tested, and never expected to be.
In FLEX Three, the Merchant King`'s body was draped in opulence, layered robes of deep crimson and thick ceremonial fabrics falling heavy over his massive frame, trimmed in gold and cut to emphasize his size rather than hide it. He was king of the region Willow Run, in the Kingdom of Mirelle, ruling beneath the banner of House Rosethorn. Gold chains and medallions hung across his chest. The Merchant King sat behind a mountain of gold bars, eyes fixed on the crystal screen as Solace tore through guards and defied a throne. He laughed, sharp and greedy, the sound echoing through the chamber. "Oh, the chaos," he said, delighted. "The markets are going to dance for me." He snapped his fingers, and his advisors leaned in at once. "Find her, support her, invest in her story." His grin widened, teeth flashing between rings and shadow.
Far away, in the Southern Continent, commonly known as Fo, the Graves Crew were deep in a sun-burnt training yard. Iron clanged, sand kicked up, and weights thudded into the dirt with brutal rhythm. Jumpman wiped sweat from their brow, long silver-white hair falling loose around his shoulders, some of it caught in practical, uneven braids that spoke of habit rather than care. A few strands clung to his face, damp with heat. His presence was calm and guarded. Muted brown eyes lifted as he lowered the crystal phone from his ear, Santy's voice still ringing in his head. Dark ink crept up the side of his neck from beneath the collar of an oversized black T-shirt, organic lines half hidden by fabric worn soft from use. Dark cargo pants hung heavy with pockets and reinforced seams, built for movement and long days, while scuffed tan combat boots pressed into the dirt without shifting. His gaze flicked upward to the broadcast crystal hanging crooked from a rusted beam. Solace filled the screen, defying a king, and throwing guards like dolls. Jumpman blinked twice. "...Yo, Fifty-Fifty," he called, voice half-laughing, half-shocked. "You're gonna want to see this." Across the yard, Fifty-Fifty stood with his back to everyone, filling the space without effort. He inspected the massive curling barbell resting against a training post, thick fingers testing the grip. The 225-pound barbell wasn't for workouts. It was his weapon, perfect for swinging. His build was big and powerful, carried with relaxed authority rather than aggression. Short, heavy locks were pulled upward and outward. A full beard framed his face, and large gold hoop earrings caught the light near his jaw when he tilted his head slightly. His expression stayed neutral and unreadable.
He wears a dark jacket left open, revealing a beige hoodie stretched slightly across his chest and stomach. Multiple gold chains rested against his chest, one bold pendant centered there, cultural rather than flashy. He dragged the barbell up with one hand and tossed it casually over his shoulder like it weighed nothing. One hand slipped back into his pockets afterward. "Better not be another fake 'prodigy,'" he muttered. Jumpman tilted the crystal toward him. Fifty-Fifty glanced at it, stopped, and slowly lowered the bar. "...Huh?" he exhaled, a grin creeping across his face. "Add her to the list." Fifty-Fifty stepped toward the screen, eyes locked on Solace like a predator spotting something interesting for the first time in years. He cracked his neck. "Jumpman," Fifty-Fifty said, voice buzzing with excitement, "get everyone ready." Jumpman cracked his knuckles. "Finally!!!" Fifty-Fifty's grin widened. "When the time comes," he said, "we're gonna show her what a real crew looks like." Around them, the rest of the Graves Crew stopped lifting, stopped sparring, stopped betting, every head turning toward their leader. They were preparing for fun, and Solace had just become a name on that list.
Far from that sun-burnt training yard, back in the Fee Continent, someone else was saying her name too. At the Cross Kingdom Task Force Continental Headquarters, inside the Marshal's Office. The door to the Continental Marshal's office opened hard. A man in a dark, tailored suit stepped in, breath tight but posture intact, carrying the bearing of a Cross Kingdom Task Force Field Operative who had learned how to run bad news uphill without breaking. His eyes stayed sharp, and he moved with practiced speed as low light washed over walls stacked with case files, operational maps, and surveillance crystals humming with quiet power. "Sir," he said quickly. "Major-Crimes failed. Detectives couldn't contain the situation." Behind the desk, Sonic Elite did not look up. He stood tall and composed, posture straight despite the years etched into him. Thick silver-white hair and a matching beard fell long and slightly unkempt around a face carved by time, authority, and decisions that never came without cost. Deep lines marked his brow and cheeks. "They usually don't," Sonic said calmly. "Tell me about the case." The operative swallowed, stepping closer. "The subject is Solace, no surname yet. Escalation exceeded projections. Major Crimes lost control early, detectives were deployed but failed to stabilize the situation."
Sonic turned, the dark suit beneath his heavy cloak caught the light, the mantle draping over his shoulders. The fabric was luxurious but scarred, flecked with gold and pale marks. A wide-brimmed hat shadowed his eyes. His hand rested on the ornate handle of a cane, equal parts support and symbol. "Do they think this will go all the way?" Sonic said. The operative tapped the page. "They think so, not only is she strong, but she's quoted as acting and moving… strange, and unusual." He glanced up. "Sounds like a lot of those other cases, sir." Silence stretched. Then the operative hesitated. "Are you… taking the case from Major Crimes?" Sonic's gaze lifted fully now, sharp beneath the brim. "No," he said evenly. "I'm going to talk to them first, give them a chance to fix this." The operative nodded. "Understood, where should I file her, sir?" Sonic's hand tightened on the cane. "Put it on my desk, Kursik. I'll take care of it. I want to review a few details more carefully." Kursik straightened. "Yes, sir." Sonic turned back toward the glowing displays, as the door closed quietly behind Kursik. He simply watched the surveillance crystals, eyes dark, already calculating how much the world was about to change.
Back in Asteria Solace hit the ground hard after her jump, way harder than she expected. Her knees buckled, and her vision blurred at the edges. She'd taken hits before, but whatever the second guy's power was, his punches weren't normal. Her ribs throbbed, and her forearm tingled. Solace pressed a hand to her side and exhaled, "why did that hurt so bad...? What the hell was he using?" Another wave of dizziness rolled through her. She staggered into the brush, found a low patch of bushes, and dropped to her knees, just for a minute, just to breathe. Then her head tipped forward into the dirt, and she didn't get back up. Time blurred, minutes, maybe hours. The forest shifted around her unconscious body, then came a faint sway and a shoulder pressing gently into her stomach. Solace cracked her eyes open, and the first thing that filled her blurred vision was a pair of shoes, Arlenna's heavy black northern boots, their leather darkened with mud from the long walk through the forest floor. A thick camp blanket was wrapped tightly around Solace's body, Arlenna's workaround so she could carry her without touching her directly. Solace didn't lift her head, she only whispered something that didn't come out right, then slipped back into unconsciousness. When she woke again, soft heat washed over her. The weighted blanket pressed comfort into her shoulders. A quiet fire snapped in the corner of the shelter. It was makeshift, fabric stretched over branches, clearly Thiago's work, overbuilt on purpose, sturdy enough to hold a storm. Solace's hand twitched, her breath quickened, and she sat up fast, but Arlenna was instantly there.
"Hey, Hey, Relax mode, Relax mode," She held up both hands, palms out. "Everything's fine." Solace blinked hard, disoriented and hurting. "What... What happened to the kids? Arlenna exhaled softly. "We got most of them home." Solace just stared so Arlenna continued. "Thiago just got back with Miss Motion, he handled the long route." She glanced toward the map of FLEX Nine. "I took the ones closer to the Astryx region." She exhaled. "The last two live way out on the far side of the Fee continent. I've never even heard of their village." She sat beside Solace, letting her settle. "We were gonna take them ourselves... but I couldn't find you," Arlenna said quietly. "You always crash hard after using too much energy, and after a fight like that... I couldn't imagine how drained you were." Solace looked up at her, throat tight. "...You came back for me?" Arlenna shrugged like it was obvious. "Of course I did." Solace's eyes softened. "...Thank you." Then her eyes dropped to the sleeping shapes wrapped near the fire, two small kids curled together. Arlenna lowered her voice. "Thiago's knocked out too, he's been building camps, scouting ahead, running from DOPO patrols... we're low on supplies and they're still searching for us."
Solace's chest tightened, she tried to sit straighter, but a sharp pain forced her back down. Arlenna immediately steadied her. "You're hurt worse than you thought," Arlenna said quietly, Solace didn't argue. Arlenna rubbed her forehead with two fingers. "We were thinking..." She hesitated. "...there's a kingdom close by, the kids said the nearest safe place is called Frostpeak Dwelling. Good reputation, Quiet, Peaceful. We only need a place to hide, rest, maybe restock, nothing more." Solace breathed out slowly, pain and exhaustion making her voice small. "And DOPO?" Arlenna rolled her eyes. "They're everywhere." She looked Solace dead in the eye. "We need a plan, we can't run forever, and we can't get these kids home without help." Solace stayed down, staring up at the roof of the makeshift shelter. Frostpeak Dwelling a name the kids whispered when Arlenna carried them, a place the crew had never seen, only a direction on a map they didn't have. A place Solace had no idea would introduce them to someone who would shape their future forever.