Hell was not fire.
Not as mortals imagined it.
It was the weight of memory, blood, and names that should have long been erased but lingered like rot. It was shadow, oath, and war songs carried across windless plains beneath a red-black sky.
The obsidian chamber of the Ninth Court towered like a cathedral of despair. Its jagged arches were carved with the cries of traitors, its floor etched with the names of those who'd bartered their souls for power they could never hold.
Infernal generals whispered in low, guttural tones that barely echoed beyond the marble ring. The walls of the Throne Hall pulsed with a sickly red glow, sigils alive with ancient magic. At its centre, Lord Bael, First Warlord of the Southern Spires and oldest ally of the King Unspoken, sat unmoved atop a throne that was not his.He did not rise when Astaroth entered.Nor did he need to.
"Astaroth," Bael said, his voice like ash dragged across marble. "I heard you'd been consorting with the weak-blooded remnants of Earth. That you'd aligned yourself with humans."
The room stirred with low murmurs from the assembled nobles—demon lords and duchesses, archfiends and fallen architects of empires past. Each watched Astaroth with venom or amusement, depending on their loyalty or fear.
"I was summoned," Astaroth replied coolly, stepping into the ring of carved bone that formed the court's floor. "If there's a crime in doing what none of you dared, perhaps you should name it."
"You involved the Paimon bloodline," said Lady Sel'Nava of the Glass Bloodlines, draped in rust-red silks that whispered with every serpentine movement. "You stirred noble blood into mortal dirt. You even attacked one of their estates and ended them all. Do you realise what you've risked?"
Astaroth smiled, slow and unreadable. "Risked noble blood, yes. Not royal."
Bael's hand curled around the arm of his throne, claws digging into obsidian.
"You've been warned before. We do not interfere with Earth unless sanctioned by the Consilium's decree. That is law."
"Laws," Astaroth said softly, stepping further into the firelight, "which all of you have broken and continue to break. Laws that bind us to humans. Laws that destroyed us and divide us still. Though I suppose you'd know all about that, Lord Bael." His gaze swept the chamber, a ripple of discontent buzzing through the room. Astaroth's words, though calm, were a provocation.
Bael stood at last.
He towered over Astaroth, his form wrapped in layered black-metal armour streaked with molten runes. The air thickened, heat pulsing off him in waves. "This is your final warning, Lord Astaroth. Surrender your faction. Disband your remnants. Leave the human world to those who
understand its place."
"And what," Astaroth asked quietly, "do you believe that place is?"
Bael smiled, teeth like swords.
"Fuel."
A moment of silence followed—one in which even the embers dared not crackle.Then came the hiss of shifting power.From the shadows beyond the pillars, three figures stepped forward—draped in cloaks of shadow-stitched flame, bearing the insignia of an ancient bloodline.
The tallest removed her hood.
"Lord Astaroth acts under ancient right," she said. "The Infernal Pact of Dominion grants him full
agency in mortal affairs, should his actions align with balance."
"The Pact is dead," Bael growled.
"No," she replied, voice unwavering. "It is only buried, like so many things in this hall. We remain bound to the humans, with all due reverence."
The standoff hung like a suspended blade.
And then a voice—calm, cold, and echoing with authority—broke the tension from the far edge
of the chamber.
All heads turned.
It was Lord Malphas, one of the three cloaked figures, stepping forward with deliberate slowness. His cloak of shadow-stitched flame billowed faintly, the insignia of his ancient bloodline—a jagged crescent encircling a fractured star—catching the sickly red glow of the Throne Hall. Known across the Nine Courts as a demon of unshakable tradition and a master of infernal jurisprudence, Malphas carried no weapon save his intellect, and that was more than enough.
"Lord Bael," he began, his voice cutting through the murmurs like a blade through silk, "royals of the Ninth Court." He offered a slight bow, a gesture of decorum that somehow felt like a challenge. "The accusations levelled against Lord Astaroth are not without merit—nor are they without precedent. Yet, we stand here debating a matter that exceeds the bounds of this assembly."
Bael's molten runes flared briefly, his eyes narrowing as he leaned forward on the usurped throne. "Speak plainly, Malphas," he growled. "I tire of riddles."
Malphas's expression remained impassive, though a flicker of amusement crossed his dark eyes. "Very well. The Infernal Pact of Dominion, invoked by our esteemed Lady Thalara, grants Lord Astaroth certain privileges in mortal affairs. Privileges that remain subject to scrutiny—but not here, and not now."
The chamber stirred, a low hum of whispers rising from the nobles. Some exchanged wary glances, others leaned forward, intrigued by the shift in tone.
Malphas pressed on, his voice steady and unyielding. "The Pact's clauses are explicit: any royal acting under its sanction must be judged by the full Consilium, not a singular court, however... esteemed its occupant." His gaze lingered on Bael, the faintest emphasis on esteemed carrying a barb too subtle to provoke outright but too sharp to ignore.
Bael's claws tightened on the throne's obsidian arms, the stone creaking under the pressure. "The Consilium has not convened since the Pact's establishment, and the King Unspoken fell silent," he said, his tone a warning. "I speak with the authority of the Spires until that changes."
"And yet," Malphas countered smoothly, "the Consilium's authority does not bend to convenience, nor does it dissolve in the absence of its head. To proceed against Lord Astaroth here, without its sanction, would be to overstep the very laws you claim to uphold."The air thickened, the nobles' murmurs growing louder. Lady Thalara tilted her head slightly, her serpentine eyes glinting with interest, while the third cloaked figure—a silent, hulking presence—shifted almost imperceptibly behind Malphas.
Bael's smile was a slash of teeth, cold and predatory. "You would delay justice for procedure, Malphas?"
"Not delay," Malphas replied, his voice taking on a steely edge. "Ensure it. To act otherwise risks a precedent that even you, Lord Bael, might find... inconvenient in times to come. Imagine the chaos if every royal could be summoned and judged by a single warlord's whim, without the Consilium's oversight."
The words landed like a stone in still water, ripples of unease spreading through the court. Bael's allies among the royals shifted uncomfortably, their loyalty tested by the logic. To defy tradition so openly would weaken Bael's position, especially with the King Unspoken's absence leaving the hierarchy fragile.
"So I propose," Malphas concluded, raising his voice just enough to silence the growing unrest, "that this matter be deferred to the full Consilium at its next sanctioned gathering. Until then, Lord Astaroth must be free to attend to his duties—unhindered by premature decrees."
The chamber held its breath. Bael's gaze locked with Malphas's, a silent battle of wills unfolding. At last, Bael leaned back, the tension in his frame easing but not vanishing.
"Very well," he said, his voice tight with suppressed rage. "The matter is tabled. For now."A collective sigh rippled through the court, though the air remained heavy with unspoken threats. Astaroth, who had watched the exchange with a stillness bordering on indifference,
inclined his head toward Malphas—a gesture of acknowledgement rather than submission.
"I will, of course, honour the Consilium's summons," Astaroth said, his tone as cool as ever. "My duties remain... pressing."
With that, the confrontation unravelled. The nobles began to disperse, their whispers filling the hall with speculation—some about Astaroth's fate, others about Bael's restraint, and a few about Malphas's calculated intervention.
As Astaroth turned to leave, Malphas stepped closer, his voice dropping to a murmur meant for
Astaroth alone. "You tread a dangerous path, old friend. This reprieve comes at a cost."
Astaroth's smile was faint, his eyes glinting with a mix of amusement and calculation. "I pay my
debts, Malphas. Always."
As he turned to depart, the third cloaked figure stepped forward, lowering his hood with a deliberate motion. His face bore the same jagged crescent and fractured star insignia as Malphas's cloak, but with a subtle distinction: a coiling serpent entwined around the crescent, its scales glinting like polished obsidian. His crimson eyes burned with fierce intelligence, his angular features carrying the stern resolve of a warrior tempered by centuries. This was Lord Vepar, a demon renowned for his vigilance and unyielding loyalty to the old ways.
"Be that as it may," Vepar said, his voice resonant and commanding, "he cannot be left unguarded."
Astaroth paused, glancing back with a flicker of curiosity. "He's chosen humanity. That makes him their burden now."
Vepar's gaze sharpened, unrelenting. "And if the humans fail him?"
Astaroth's smirk was cold, his eyes narrowing with steely determination. "Then I will not."
No one spoke after that.
Because Astaroth's meaning was clear. He would not let the plan fail.
The cold never settled into NovaMyst like this before.
Once, the academy buzzed with magical signatures so dense, so refined, that even Eurastra's winter chill couldn't cling to its stones. Now, it bled cold—not physically, but spiritually. The grid was shattered, and with it, something deeper had cracked.
Evan drummed his fingers on the stone railing, overlooking the crumbling western wing of the academy. Scaffolding stretched like bones across the gaps, reconstruction spells flickering lazily from overworked mages. Repair teams from other schools swarmed in controlled chaos, patching wounds they didn't understand.
He sighed deeply.
"Seven days," he muttered, biting the edge of his nail. "Anton runs off with half the bloody squad—no updates, no clearance, nothing. Just gone. And now they're back like nothing happened."
Susana didn't answer. She stood beside him in the early morning light, her breath fogging in the cold. The tension between them was palpable—not hostile, just... off.
"You'd think after all that happened—after everything—someone would bother to explain," Evan continued, glancing sideways at her. "But no. We're just supposed to pretend it was routine. That we're not sitting on a cracked grid and an academy full of whispers."
Her shoulders tensed.
"Seven days. Seven days I heard nothing—nothing—from anyone. Not you, not Anton, not even Irina. And she's been acting like a bloody ghost since you lot got back. I know Nate was set up. I know it wasn't some planned attack on the academy or the grid. So why the hell is everyone pretending I don't deserve to know what went down?"
Susana flinched at that—not at the words, but the way they were said. The closeness. The need in his voice.
"I'm sorry," she murmured, her eyes averted. "I don't know how to explain it. I still don't... We don't know everything. I'm not even sure they do."
Evan turned toward her, his voice quieter but rough. "You don't have to protect me, Susana. I can handle the truth. What I can't handle is being shut out by people I care about."
Her breath hitched. That was too close. Too personal. She stepped back, arms wrapping around herself. "Don't," she said softly. "I'm not... Just don't."
Evan froze, the pain on her face silencing any retort. He swallowed, his voice gentler. "I'm not asking you to be okay with it. Just... don't vanish on me too."
Susana looked down, nodding faintly, but didn't reply.
Elsewhere in the academy...
Irina moved like smoke.
Her steps were measured, her smile immaculate, her uniform spotless—all a mask for the chaos she wove in the shadows. SoviaTechna had made it clear: NovaMyst was weak, and a power vacuum never stayed empty for long.
Encrypted messages flickered through her CAT, visible only to her eyes. Secret meetings under the guise of diplomatic reports. Data extracted from internal files and rerouted through secure channels. Leverage was everything now.
She entered the grand library—partially renovated after the explosion—and met her handler: a thin, spectacled boy posing as a support mage from Nortechsphere Union.
"Any progress?" he whispered, eyes darting.
Irina didn't look at him as she passed a small rune-infused drive into his gloved hand.
The exchange was a whisper of motion—fingers brushing for less than a heartbeat, the drive vanishing into his palm like a shadow swallowed by night. She kept walking, her steps deliberate but unhurried, her eyes fixed on the towering shelves as if she were just another student lost in pursuit of knowledge. The air was thick with the scent of aged parchment and the faint hum of reconstruction spells flickering in the distance, a reminder of NovaMyst's fragile state.
His gloved hand closed around the drive, and with a practiced flick, he slipped it into a concealed seam within his robes. He turned to a nearby shelf, pulling a dusty tome free and flipping it open, his movements slow and methodical. To anyone watching, he was just an overworked mage engrossed in research. But beneath the calm facade, his pulse thrummed with the weight of what he carried—secrets that could shift the balance of power in a fractured academy.
Irina rounded a corner, her senses razor-sharp. The library was a labyrinth of shadows and half-lit alcoves, perfect for hiding—or being hunted. She paused at a display of ancient grimoires, her fingers grazing the cracked leather spines as if searching for a title. It was a ruse, a moment to scan her periphery. A flicker of movement caught her eye—a student, perhaps, or an academy guard patrolling the aisles. Her breath stilled, her body statue-still until the figure passed, oblivious to her presence. Only then did she exhale, slipping into a narrow passageway between
two looming bookcases, the darkness swallowing her like an ally.
In the passageway, Irina emerged into a dimly lit section where the air felt heavier, laden with secrets. She approached a nondescript bookshelf, her fingers brushing a hidden rune etched into the wood. With a soft click, a panel swung open, revealing a cramped chamber aglow with the faint blue light of magical artefacts. Communication arrays blinked in sync with her CAT—her covert augmented terminal—projecting encrypted data only she could see. This was her sanctum, a nerve centre carved out of NovaMyst's chaos, where she orchestrated SoviaTechna's moves in this high-stakes game.
She activated a holographic display, its surface flickering to life with a map of the academy—key locations pulsing like wounds: the shattered grid, the western wing, the council chambers. Her fingers danced across the controls, sending a coded burst to her superiors: "Package delivered. Awaiting further instructions." The message vanished into the ether, leaving no trace. Yet, as she worked, a prickle of unease crawled up her spine. The academy was a nest of whispers—students, mages, guards—all potential eyes in a place where trust was a luxury she couldn't afford.
Across the library, the handler's decoder beeped softly, its task complete. The data was a goldmine—schematics of the grid's weak points, intercepted communiqués from rival factions, evidence of a deeper fracture within NovaMyst's leadership. He extracted the drive, tucking it back into his robes, and dispelled the concealment spell with a wave of his hand. The air settled around him as he stood, smoothing his uniform, his scholarly mask sliding back into place. He exited the nook, blending into the sparse crowd of students drifting through the library's halls, his mind already racing with the next move.
Irina leaned back, her expression a fortress of calm, but her thoughts churned. The drive was just one piece in a sprawling puzzle. SoviaTechna wasn't the only player at the table—rumours of other spies, other agendas, circled like vultures over the academy's carcass. Every step she took was a gamble, every secret she traded a potential blade at her throat. But she was in too deep to turn back, bound by a loyalty that burned colder than the winds howling outside NovaMyst's walls.
The library grew quieter as the morning stretched on, its shadows lengthening. Irina powered down her sanctum, the panel sealing shut with a whisper of magic. She stepped back into the open, her smile immaculate, her uniform pristine—a perfect ghost weaving through a world on the brink. The game was far from over, and she intended to play it to the end.
In the High Council Tower
The grand council chamber of NovaMyst was a hollowed-out relic, its once-opulent walls scarred by the grid's collapse. Flickering runes pulsed weakly along the vaulted ceiling, casting an uneven glow over the massive projection hologram that dominated the room. The hologram displayed a mosaic of faces—representatives from every major academy across Eurastra and beyond, their expressions ranging from calculated neutrality to barely veiled ambition. The air thrummed with the low hum of Aetherium stabilisers, struggling to keep the chamber's systems online, and the faint tang of ozone lingered, a reminder of the academy's fractured state.
Chloe Rawllings and Elysia Arundel stood at the centre of the chamber, their silhouettes sharp against the hologram's cold light. Flanking them were three heads of house from visiting academies: Master Kael Vorn of Sovitechna Front University, his cybernetic eye glinting like a predator's; Lady Seraphine Da Cruz of Sudotech Alliance School, her emerald robes shimmering with bioluminescent threads; and Professor Hiroshi Tan of Shin Kyūmirai Academy, his calm demeanour betrayed by the subtle tap of his augmented finger against his wrist slate. Their presence was a formality, but their scrutiny felt like a blade at the throat.
The hologram flickered as a voice cut through the static—a Nortechsphere Union delegate, her tone clipped and authoritative. "The Joint Reconstruction Initiative is non-negotiable. NovaMyst's failure has destabilised the Aetherium network across Eurastra. We've allocated stabilisers from our reserves, but we expect results. Accountability."
Elysia's jaw tightened, her blue eyes narrowing. "Accountability?" she echoed, her voice low but edged with steel. "NovaMyst didn't shatter the grid. The Purity Front did. Perhaps you should redirect your stabilisers to their doorstep."
A murmur rippled through the hologram, some faces stiffening, others exchanging guarded glances. Master Vorn's cybernetic eye whirred softly, focusing on Elysia with unnerving precision. "Bold words, Lady Arundel," he said, his voice a gravelly hum. "But accusations without proof are as useless as a broken CAT. The Purity Front is a shadow. NovaMyst is a target."
Chloe stepped forward, her posture rigid but her tone measured, cutting off Elysia's retort. "We're not here to point fingers. NovaMyst is committed to the Initiative. We've already begun repairs to the western wing and are recalibrating our stabilisers. But resources are stretched thin. If the Council wants results, we need more than expectations—we need support."
Lady Da Cruz tilted her head, her bioluminescent robes casting faint green reflections on the floor. "Support is not charity, President Rawllings," she said, her voice smooth but laced with condescension. "The Sudotech Alliance has diverted significant Aetherium to this effort. We expect NovaMyst to prove its worth, not beg for scraps."
Chloe's fingers curled into fists, hidden beneath her crossed arms, but her expression remained a fortress of calm. Her thoughts were elsewhere—on Nate, alone in the Abyss District, a scapegoat for crimes he didn't commit. On the whispers in the royal corridors, where her family's name was tangled in rumours that could destroy her family. The weight of those secrets pressed against her, a silent storm threatening to unravel everything she'd fought to protect.
Professor Tan spoke next, his voice soft but piercing. "The Council proposes a solution to this... impasse." He tapped his slate, and the hologram shifted, displaying a stylised emblem: a circle of interlocking runes, each representing an academy. "The First Continental Inter-Academy Convergence. A competition to showcase the strength of Eurastra's mages, restore NovaMyst's reputation, and foster unity. Your participation is expected."
Elysia's eye twitched, a spark of defiance flaring in her gaze. "Expected. Not requested?" Her tone was sharp, slicing through the chamber's hum. "You think a tournament will fix a shattered grid? Or silence the families?"
The hologram erupted in low murmurs, the delegates' faces tightening. Master Vorn leaned forward, his cybernetic eye glowing faintly. "Careful, Arundel. Your knight's absence is already a stain on NovaMyst's honour. A competition will prove your academy's resilience—or expose its weakness."
Chloe's hand shot out, a subtle gesture to stay Elysia's response. "NovaMyst will be ready," she said, her voice steady but carrying an undercurrent of steel. "We'll make sure of it."
The hologram flickered as the call ended, the delegates' faces dissolving into static. The chamber fell silent, save for the faint buzz of failing stabilisers. The three heads of house exchanged glances, their expressions unreadable, before filing out, leaving Chloe and Elysia alone in the cavernous space.
Elysia spun on her heel, her cloak snapping with the motion. "Are you serious? A competition? When the city's falling apart and the grid's shattered? When Nate's out there, risking everything for us?"
Chloe crossed her arms, her gaze fixed on the fading hologram, but her thoughts lingered on those royal whispers—her family's name, stained with suspicion, and Nate's, a convenient scapegoat. "That's exactly why," she said, her voice quieter now, but resolute. "If we look weak, we stay weak. The other academies are circling like sharks. This Convergence isn't just a game—it's a chance to show we're still a force. To buy time."
Elysia exhaled sharply, running a hand through her hair. "Time for what? To play politics while the Syndicate tightens its grip? While Nate's stuck dodging bounties?"
Chloe's jaw tightened, a flicker of guilt crossing her face. She turned to meet Elysia's gaze, her voice softening. "I don't like it either. But we can't help Nate if NovaMyst falls. The Convergence will draw attention, give us cover to dig into the Syndicate's moves. To find proof he's not the enemy."
Elysia's eyes searched Chloe's, the weight of their shared burden hanging between them. "And if we don't find it? If the royal families—or your family—keep pushing this lie about him?"
Chloe flinched, the mention of her family cutting deeper than Elysia could know. The whispers in the corridors, gnawed at her. She forced her voice to steady. "We will. We have to. For Nate. For all of us."
Elysia's lips pressed into a thin line, her defiance warring with exhaustion. "Fine," she muttered, her voice barely above a whisper. "Let's win their bloody competition. But we're doing it on our terms."
Chloe nodded, but her gaze drifted back to the empty hologram, her mind on Nate—his silhouette against the Abyss District's neon, his promise to hold the line. She wondered if he knew how much they were fighting for him, or if the whispers in the royal corridors would reach him first, poisoning the trust they'd built.
The chamber's sigils flickered once more, then dimmed, leaving the two women in a pool of shadow. The game was on, and NovaMyst was running out of moves.
Anton moved like a ghost through encrypted networks and his connections. Every informant he contacted gave the same answer: nothing sticks. No one would touch Nate's case. Too volatile. Too risky.
He pressed harder. Visited Abyss informants in other cities. Dug into Syndicate rumours. The deeper he went, the more silence he hit.
Until, in desperation, he called Irina.
She didn't pick up the first time. Or the second.
When she finally met him, it was in the courtyard, under the shade of dead vines.
The courtyard was a forgotten corner, its cracked stone paths choked with dead vines curling like skeletal fingers under the dim glow of failing Aetherium lamps. The air was heavy with the scent of damp earth and rust, a cold that seeped into the bones despite the faint hum of reconstruction spells echoing from the academy's distant wings.
"You need to stop," she said before he could speak. "You're making noise. Too much noise."
"Then help me make the right kind," Anton snapped.
Irina looked at him—longer than usual, with a strange pain in her eyes.
"I can't. Not this time."
He froze. "What the hell does that mean? Since when do you back off?"
Irina's green eyes flickered with something raw—pain, perhaps guilt—but she didn't look away. She stood a few paces from him, arms crossed tightly, her spotless uniform a stark contrast to the courtyard's decay. The silence stretched, taut and brittle, like a wire about to snap. For a moment, she seemed to waver, her lips parting as if to speak, but then her jaw tightened, and she shook her head.
"Anton, just... drop it," she said, her voice low, almost pleading. "You're digging too deep. You're going to get hurt."
"Hurt?" He took a step closer, his hands clenching into fists at his sides. "I'm not the one running from this. I've been out there, Irina, chasing every dead-end lead I can find. No one will touch Nate's case. It's a wall of silence, and I'm smashing my head against it. For him. For us." His voice trembled, not with anger but with something new—desperation, raw and unfiltered, clawing its way out for the first time.
Irina flinched, her eyes widening as she saw it—the crack in his armour, the boy beneath the machine. Anton, who calculated every move, who saw Aetherium's flow like a river and bent it to his will, was unravelling. His breath came faster, his enhanced mind racing but finding no purchase, no logic to anchor him. He didn't understand this feeling, this ache that wasn't pain but hurt all the same, and it terrified him.
"You think I don't know it's risky?" he pressed, his voice rising, the words tumbling out like a flood he couldn't stop. "I've been a target my whole life—Melnic's failure, the Syndicate's experiment, a walking catastrophe they can't wait to dissect. But I'm still here, Irina. I'm still fighting. For you. For... Nate. For this bloody academy that's falling apart. So why—" He broke off, his throat tightening, and gestured helplessly at her. "Why are you shutting me out?"
Irina's hands dropped to her sides, her fingers trembling. She wanted to scream, to tell him everything—how SoviaTechna's orders were a noose around her neck, how every move she made was to keep him safe from the shadows closing in. But she couldn't. Not without breaking him further. Instead, she took a step back, her voice shaking with the effort to hold herself together.
"You don't get it, do you?" she said, her tone sharp now, the first edge of a sibling fight cutting through. "This isn't about you being strong or smart or whatever you think makes you untouchable. You're not invincible, Anton! You're—" She bit her lip, tears prickling at the corners of her eyes. "You're my brother. And I can't watch you throw yourself into this... this void for Nate, for me, or this academy, not when it's going to destroy you."
Anton stared at her, his enhanced mind struggling to parse the emotion in her words. His chest tightened, a sensation he couldn't name—grief, perhaps, or betrayal. "Destroy me?" he echoed, his voice quieter but no less desperate. "Irina, I'm already destroyed. Father, Mother, the Syndicate—they made sure of that. The chip in my head, the experiments, the screams of the people I've sacrificed to restore what's broken—" He cut himself off, his hand raking through his hair, his blue eyes haunted. "I'm doing this because it's all I have. You're all I have. And Nate... Watching him go through all this unfairness reminds me of us, of me. I can't just sit by and let innocent people go through what I did."
Irina's breath hitched, her heart twisting at the sight of him—so lost, so desperate, the brother who'd shielded her from the world now begging for her help. She wanted to reach for him, to pull him close like they'd done as children, before the Melnic family's fractures and the Syndicate's cruelty tore them apart. But his words—"make the right kind of noise"—echoed, and her mind flashed to the warmth of his rare smiles, the way her body stirred when he stood too close, feelings she didn't want to name but couldn't ignore.
Her face flushed, a sudden, awkward heat flooding her cheeks. "Noise?" she stammered, her voice cracking as her thoughts veered to something unintended. "You mean—like—" She caught herself, horrified, and turned away, her hands flying to her face. "No, I—I can't do this."
Anton blinked, confusion cutting through his desperation. "What?" His voice was softer now, almost fragile, as he took a cautious step toward her. "Irina, what's wrong? I'm just asking you to help me find a lead, to push the right people, to—"
"Stop!" she snapped, whirling back to face him, her eyes blazing with a mix of shame and anger. "Just stop, okay? I can't help you. I won't. You're asking me to dive into something bigger than us, and I—" Her voice broke, tears spilling over despite her efforts to hold them back. "I can't lose you, Anton. Not to this. Not to them."
The words hit him like a physical blow. He stood frozen, his enhanced mind racing to process the flood of emotions—her tears, her trembling voice, the way she looked at him like he was both her anchor and her breaking point. He didn't understand why her refusal felt like a betrayal deeper than any he'd faced. His hands twitched, wanting to reach for her, but the chip in his brain screamed logic over instinct, and he stayed rooted, his voice barely a whisper.
"Irina..." he said, the desperation now a raw wound in his tone. "You're the only one I trust. The only one who's ever seen me, not the experiment, not the weapon. If you won't help me, then what am I supposed to do?"
Irina's heart shattered at that, the pain in his eyes a mirror to her own. She wanted to tell him the truth—that SoviaTechna had her in a vice, that every move she made was to keep the Syndicate's eyes off him, to shield him from the fate their father's betrayal had set in motion. But she couldn't. Not without risking everything. Instead, she shook her head, her voice a broken whisper.
"I'm sorry," she said, backing away, her tears falling freely now. "I can't. Not this time."
She turned and fled, her footsteps echoing in the courtyard's silence, leaving Anton alone under the dead vines. He stood there, his breath ragged, his enhanced mind spiraling but finding no answers. For the first time, he felt the weight of his own desperation, a feeling he couldn't calculate or control, and it broke something inside him—a crack in the machine that might never heal.
Over the next four weeks, Anton threw himself into the abyss of the Abyss Districts, a relentless shadow tearing through black-market operations like a man possessed. He tracked down their smuggling hubs, disrupted low-level arms trades with brutal efficiency, and pried CAT-users—emaciated, hollow-eyed wretches forced into servitude—from their chains. Sleep was a distant memory, replaced by the hum of adrenaline and the metallic tang of blood. Food was an afterthought; his body ran on rage and the faint, flickering hope that if he pushed hard enough, he might outrun the questions clawing at his mind.
Why had Irina turned away? What had broken between them? He'd seen the tears in her eyes, the tremble in her voice when she refused him, but the why eluded him, a jagged wound festering beneath his skin. Each thug he crushed, each shipment he torched, was a scream into that void—a plea for answers he couldn't find in her silence.
Until one night, he stood panting over the wreckage of a mysterious convoy in the slums of New Greenwich. The air reeked of burned Aetherium and charred flesh. His eyes burned, raw from exhaustion and the acrid smoke curling around him. His hands shook, slick with blood—his own, dripping from a gash at his temple, and theirs, staining his knuckles. The bodies of what appeared to be Syndicate enforcers and Purity agents sprawled across the fractured pavement. But why were these two groups working together?
Bloody hell, he thought. Was the Syndicate also involved in all the other operations he'd been shutting down?
If so, he'd hit them hard this time. Too hard. The convoy had been moving something big—crates of tech, data shards, something the Syndicate didn't want loose. He'd torn it apart anyway, consequences be damned.
His CAT buzzed in his hands, transmitting a single word into his mind.
"REACQUIRED."
The word hit him like a punch to the gut. They'd found him. The Syndicate had locked onto his signal, his location—maybe his bloody soul, for all he knew. His pulse thundered in his ears, a drumbeat of panic and defiance. He was exposed, a target painted in neon across the slums. But he couldn't stop. Not now. Not when he was so close to something—a truth, a weapon, a way to make sense of the chaos swallowing him whole.
He dropped to one knee beside the convoy's overturned transport, his fingers—numb, trembling—prying open a sealed compartment. Inside, amid the wreckage of vials and scorched circuits, lay a sleek, sigil-etched device. This was no cheap black-market junk; it was refined, precise, with NovaMyst's signature etched into its core. His enhanced mind kicked into overdrive, piecing it together: this was tech designed to track magic users, but why?
He pocketed the device, his jaw clenching so hard his teeth ached. This was a lead—a thread to pull. But the cost was catching up. The hum of Aetherium crackled in the distance, a telltale sign of Syndicate mages closing in. He dove behind a crumbling wall as a bolt of energy scorched the ground where he'd stood, the heat singeing his skin. They were here, and they weren't mucking about.
Outnumbered. Outgunned. Running on fumes. Anton's mind raced, a fractured mess of survival instinct and despair. He could run, but they'd track him. He could fight, but he'd die. Or he could do what he always did—push the limits of his cursed, experimental body and damn the consequences.
With a flick of his wrist, he activated his CAT, its sigils flaring with a sickly, forbidden light. Pain lanced through his skull, the chip in his brain screaming as he tapped into his ability: the power to copy and restore, to rewrite reality's code. This time, he turned it inward, resetting his body—wounds stitching shut, exhaustion burned away in a flood of artificial vitality. The cost was steep. He felt it in his bones—the lives he'd taken, the scum he'd sacrificed to fuel this power, their deaths a chorus of guilt he couldn't silence. But he had no choice. Not if he wanted to live. Not if he wanted answers.
The world shimmered, time folding as his body snapped back to fighting form. The Syndicate mages rounded the corner, their CATs glowing, their faces twisting in shock as he rose, unbroken, his gaze a cold, unyielding void. He didn't give them time to react. A surge of Aetherium ripped from his hands, slamming them into the wreckage with a sickening crunch. Blood sprayed, bones shattered, and silence fell—heavy, suffocating.
Anton swayed, the overclocking hitting like a sledgehammer. Blood trickled from his nose, his vision doubling, but he forced himself upright. He clutched the CAT-substitute, stumbling forward through the slums. He had to get it to his network—the ragtag group of hackers and outcasts he'd built to dig into the grid explosion, to expose NovaMyst's rot. They could crack it, trace it, turn it into a weapon.
But the weight of it all—the blood, the betrayal, the endless fight—crushed him. He was spiralling, a man on a path of no return, each step dragging him further from the brother Irina had known. And still, he couldn't stop. Because stopping meant facing her rejection, facing the emptiness where her trust used to be. And that was a darkness he wasn't ready to drown in.