02:45 AM, Nocturnus Standard Time.
There was no up. There was no down.
There was only the void. An endless ocean of black ink, cold and bone-chilling. Here, gravity was a joke, and time was nothing more than a forgotten concept.
Devon floated in a fetal position. Naked. Fragile. Like a speck of cosmic dust discarded by the universe. There was no sound, no light, only the beating of his own heart echoing like a death knell in his ears.
Is this the end? Is this actual hell?
Poke. Poke.
A minor disturbance broke the eternal silence. Something hard and pointed jabbed at his cheek with an irritating rhythm.
Poke. Poke.
"Haa... look, Sleeping Beauty has finally decided to join the real world."
The voice. Low, husky, and laced with a dangerous teasing tone. The whisper pierced the fog in Devon's brain, forcibly dragging him back from the abyss of unconsciousness.
Devon opened his eyes.
His vision blurred for a moment before finally focusing on the face looming directly above him. And instantly, Devon's breath hitched. His heart—which usually beat with the calm of a sociopath—jolted violently, painfully striking his ribs.
Those eyes.
One burning red like the embers of hell. The other, ice-blue, as cold as a deep-sea trench. A heterochromia he could never forget.
A gaunt face with a sharp jawline, thin lips prone to mocking smirks, and pointed ears poking out from behind strands of hair.
"Kaelith...?" Devon whispered, his voice cracking, hoarse with an emotion he thought was long dead. His hand moved reflexively, reaching for that face. "You... you're alive?"
The woman laughed. It wasn't the coarse laugh of the soldier Devon knew, but a crisp laughter, like small bells chiming in the middle of a storm.
"Kaelith?" the woman repeated, her long, manicured finger tracing Devon's jawline with a touch that made his skin crawl. "I don't know who that lucky girl is, Cutie. But I am not her."
She tilted her head, letting her long, straight hair—not Kaelith's short, shaggy cut—fall and brush against Devon's face.
"My name is Eira, Darling," she whispered, her breath smelling of cool mint and intoxicating pheromones. "And starting this second, you are my sweet little prisoner."
Reality hit Devon like a truck.
He wasn't in heaven or hell. He was inside the metal cabin of a Magitech Gunship vibrating violently as it cut through a storm. The roar of jet engines screamed outside, mingling with thunder.
Devon tried to sit up.
CLANG!
Cold metal restrained his wrists. He looked down. Both hands were shackled tightly to the metal armrests by magical cuffs blinking red. He was locked in. Helpless.
Devon looked around. In the seat next to him, Stormclaw sat casually licking the back of his furry hand. The big cat wasn't handcuffed. He wasn't tied up. He looked like a VIP passenger enjoying a business trip.
"Oi," Devon protested, shaking his chains in annoyance. "What the hell is this discrimination? Why is that furball allowed to roam free while I'm tied up like an illegal Christmas package?"
Stormclaw stopped licking his hand. He turned to Devon, giving him an incredibly convincing look of innocence—as if to say, 'I'm just a cat, I don't know anything'—then went back to grooming his fur.
"Don't be stupid," a sharp voice cut in from the other side of the cabin.
In the seat opposite, a Shark-woman with rough grey skin sat with a short-barreled weapon on her lap. Her eyes were pitch black, void of emotion, and sharp fins protruded from her arms. Sharky.
"That creature," Sharky said, gesturing to Stormclaw with her chin, "is just a wild beast with big muscles. But you..." Her eyes narrowed at Devon. "Intelligence reports say you are slippery. Manipulative. An anomaly. We aren't taking risks with you."
"How cruel," Devon muttered flatly.
"Oh, don't listen to her," Eira interjected.
The Elf woman didn't return to her seat. With a bold move that violated every security protocol, she sat on the armrest of Devon's chair. Her slender thigh, clad in tight leather pants, pressed against Devon's shoulder.
"I don't think you look dangerous," Eira said, her fingers playing with Devon's face again, poking his cheek once more. "You look... cute."
Eira's eyes shifted upward. To the side of Devon's head.
"Especially with this thing," she said.
Eira's hand reached out.
"Do—don't..." Devon tried to warn her, his eyes widening.
Too late.
Eira's fingers touched the base of the red wing on the right side of Devon's head. The Valkyrie wing, now fully grown, twitched violently as Eira stroked it, tracing the grooves of the sensitive feathers with slow, sensual movements.
"Hhnngh..."
The sound escaped Devon's lips without permission. His body went rigid in the chair, his back arching, his toes curling inside his shoes. A sensation of ticklishness mixed with static electricity shot straight down his spine, momentarily paralyzing his motor nerves.
Eira paused, her eyes sparkling with pleasant surprise. The smile on her lips widened into a hungry grin.
"Oh?" Eira chuckled, a low, teasing sound. "Sensitive, aren't we?"
She didn't stop. Instead, she began to caress it more intensely, tickling the underside of the wing where the nerves were directly connected.
"Sto... ahh... stop it..." Devon tried to turn his face away, but the handcuffs held him in place. His pale face was now flushed a deep red. The wing on his head flapped panic-stricken, helpless under the woman's touch.
The dignity of the Cosmic Emperor collapsed instantly in the face of an ear massage.
Eira leaned in close, her lips almost brushing Devon's other ear.
"It's a shame, Sweetie," Eira whispered. "You have to go into The Monolith. That place will eat you alive. You're too pretty for a place like that."
She squeezed the base of Devon's wing a little harder, making him hold his breath.
"Maybe... if you beg nicely, I'll visit you in your cell often? Just to... play with this wing again?"
Devon could only grunt roughly, turning his face toward the dark window. "Dammit..."
"The Monolith is in sight!" shouted the goblin pilot from the front.
The aircraft banked sharply.
Outside the window, amidst the raging sea storm, a jet-black structure rose, piercing the waves. A gigantic hexagonal tower that looked like an earth-stake driven into the heart of the ocean. Lightning flashed around it, illuminating the faded lettering on its steel walls: The Monolith Maritime Penitentiary.
"Welcome to your new home, Devon-kun," whispered Eira.
The Cliffs of Murkfen Swamps.
The sea wind roared, carrying grains of salt that clung to cold metal. Nightreaver stood at the edge of the cliff, his biomechanical silhouette cutting through the dim moonlight. The giant scythe on his back vibrated softly, its blade glowing red.
The red ocular lens on the skull-half of his face performed an extreme zoom, staring at the tiny dot of the aircraft carrying Devon away.
On his retina, a red warning flashed:
[EXTREME DANGER ZONE. DEATH PROBABILITY: 99.9%.]
Chasing the target into The Monolith wasn't a matter of bravery. It was a matter of cost-benefit calculation. And the calculator in his head said: The House Wins.
Nightreaver pressed a button on his temple. A hologram of Lord Alaric appeared.
"Mission aborted," Nightreaver's voice sounded static and emotionless. "Target has been taken to The Monolith. I require military-grade siege equipment to breach it. Operational costs are unjustifiable."
"I don't care!" hissed Alaric on the other end. "I want his head! Destroy that prison if you have to!"
"Stop it, Father." Cecilia's voice cut in, cold and logical. The little girl appeared on the screen, hugging her doll. "Let that place kill him. That human won't last a day in there. Don't waste our money on scrap metal at the bottom of the sea."
Alaric fell silent, then let out a long sigh. "Fine. The transfer is processing. Consider this hush money."
The connection cut off.
Nightreaver lowered his hand. "Mission complete. Partial."
He turned, ready to leave. But his logic circuits experienced an impulsive glitch. An itch to destroy something before departing. He grabbed his scythe, took a throwing stance, aiming for the aircraft's propellers in the distance.
"A farewell gift..."
GRAB.
A giant hand covered in black scales gripped his wrist. The grip was absolute. Like a hydraulic clamp that could not be resisted.
"What do you think you're doing, Scrap Heap?"
The voice was heavy, wet, and menacing.
Nightreaver turned his head slowly.
Viorak the Cyber Abyss stood beside him. The four-meter-tall cyborg-shark giant loomed over him, hot steam venting from the gills on his neck. His neon-purple eyes stared at Nightreaver with an intensity that promised extreme violence.
"That helicopter is carrying my cargo," Viorak growled, baring his serrated teeth. "If you throw your toy... I will rip your arm off and beat you with it until you're a dented tin can."
Nightreaver scanned.
[Target: Viorak. Status: Alpha Predator. Win Probability: 12%.]
"Tch," Nightreaver sheathed his scythe. "Take the trash then. I need to find some oil."
Without looking back, the killing machine walked away, disappearing into the darkness.
Viorak snorted, smoke billowing from his nose. He stared at the aircraft, now almost gone over the horizon.
"Time to welcome the guests," he whispered.
Viorak walked to the edge of the cliff. He didn't hesitate.
He jumped.
His massive body free-fell toward the ferocious waves below.
SPLASH!
The moment he hit the water, Viorak transformed. Jet thrusters on his back and legs ignited underwater. He shot forward like a living torpedo, slicing through the ocean currents at supersonic speed, chasing the aircraft from the depths to deliver a welcome the new prisoners would never forget.