Commander Silas Morrigan stood between them like a sword drawn too early. His coat hung like a stormcloud from his shoulders, the edges flecked with ash from Varkath's latest fire. His gaze flicked between the two men—each a legend in their own right, and both far too used to being the smartest in any room.
Veymar Callistrade, Arch Mage of the Arcaneum, stood with the poise of a man who had spoken with gods and remained unimpressed. His crimson robes rippled in an unseen wind, runes flickering gold across the fabric, each sigil a binding word from some dead tongue. The glyphs orbiting him rotated slowly, like moons awaiting prophecy.
Professor Langley M, founder of the Hall of M and the Sanctuary, was more grounded—literally and figuratively. His coat was patched, data-threads blinking like tired eyes. His hands were stained with ink and synthetic nerve oil. He leaned forward over the long slab of polished blackglass, where the waveform still pulsed.
"You're wrong," Langley said with the weary defiance of a man who's had this fight before. "This signal isn't otherworldly. It's mutant-born. The energy matches those emitted by Level Seven classifications. That resonance? It's not alien—it's us. It's what we become when pushed too far."
Veymar's reply came slow, like thunder choosing when to roll. "And yet it precedes us. Elias Wrench recorded it forty years ago, and his own notes indicated something ancient—pre-human, if you believe the buried texts. This frequency... it calls. Not activates. Not evolves. Summons. That's not mutation. That's invocation."
Langley scoffed, pacing. "Mystic paranoia. You've spent too long staring into void rifts and thinking everything is a demon trying to climb out."
"And you," Veymar said, voice cold and rich as polished obsidian, "have spent too long looking for redemption in unstable bloodlines. You coddle anomalies and call them children. But this—this signal—isn't born from pain. It feeds on it. It amplifies fear, rage, hunger. That's not growth. That's contagion."
Silas finally spoke, gravel low and cutting through their philosophies. "You're both saying the same thing with different flavors of dread. One sees a threat from the stars, the other sees evolution turned sour. What I see is Varkath melting down. Ten million mutants on a powder keg wired to this signal—and no one's giving me a damn solution."
Langley slammed a file onto the table, a faded scan of Wrench's final brain-mapping test. "The answer's not locking us away. It's understanding the source. Look at this spike—subject was in full sync with the signal and didn't turn feral. What changed? What controlled it? We're missing something."
Veymar raised a hand, fingers swirling, drawing light from air. A vision shimmered above them—an ancient city swallowed by sand, glyphs identical to the waveform etched in stone. "This same signal was carved in the ruins of Alt'hazuun. A city that fell overnight, its people torn apart by their own. Tell me again how this is mutant evolution."
Silas stared at both, his patience bleeding. "Old business," he muttered. "Three men pushing fifty, still arguing like schoolboys with a goddamn cosmic infection spreading under our feet."
Langley laughed bitterly. "Some things don't age."
Veymar allowed a faint smile, thin as a blade. "And some rot deeper the longer they're left unchecked."
Silas exhaled, the scar across his chin twitching. "I'm not here to debate myths or molecules. I'm here to keep the continent from burning. So unless one of you knows how to turn this signal off, you better start agreeing on something other than how much you hate each other."
Silas swiped his rough fingers across the datapad, casting its light into the gloom between them. With a flick, a projection expanded—twelve files glowing in midair, each one marked with red stamps, performance metrics, and the occasional disciplinary flag. He turned the screen with a flourish toward Veymar and Langley like a poker player laying down a winning hand.
"Let's stop pretending either of you are just scholars now," Silas said, his voice gravelly with amusement. "You're professors with armies. Question is—who's ready for fieldwork?"
The first image: Kaelis Vaelthorne—his face serene, silver eyes glowing under a hood of midnight blue. "Your little elf prince," Silas muttered, eyeing Veymar. "Looks like he drinks moonlight and talks in riddles."
Next: Darian Crosswell, with faded scars and golden runes etched into cracked skin. "This one I like. Probably wakes up every morning with a grim toast to 'one more damned day.'"
Three more flickered into view beside them:
Myrren Stroud, a shrouded necrosavant with living ink bleeding across his skin—unreadable and vaguely unsettling.
Nyra Sablethorn, a shadow-dancer whose specialty involved silencing spells mid-cast and picking locks in reverse.
Thalos Korran, Veymar's only sanctioned planeswalker. Never spoke. Carried three mirrors and no heart, apparently.
Silas didn't give them long to admire their prodigies. Another flick, and up came the Sanctuary students.
"Now here's your motley bunch," Silas said, smirking at Langley. "Look like a rebellious band about to drop a power ballad."
Barry Leighton, the infamous sheriff of Yuccavale, glared from his file like he could smell the government.
Seraphina Vale—labeled Aegis—mid-cast, surrounded by a dome of pure blue mana.
Kai Vex, aka Blink, locked mid-teleport, one boot still phasing out of a wall.
Then came more:
Rick, Crystallion—face taut, crystalline armor climbing up his throat.
Kevin, Inferno—red eyes, one eyebrow singed in what Silas assumed was not his first 'training mishap.'
Hana, Echo—caught in a sonic burst pose, mouth open, windows shattered around her.
Gregor, Golem—so big he barely fit in the photo, holding a squirrel like it was a precious artifact.
Vera, Quicksilver—mid-dash, hair like a living river of mercury.
Elias, Venom—green-eyed menace with a smile too sharp for comfort.
Raven—gliding across moonlight, wings wide and eyes haunted.
Solus, hands outstretched mid-portal, wearing no shoes.
Serene, leaning lazily in a chair while time froze around her tea cup.
Silas leaned back, arms crossed, grin widening. "So. Which of your little geniuses can help me trace the source, jump through half a continent, and not die doing it?"
Veymar tilted his head, amused. "Kaelis and Thalos could triangulate the echo points. Nyra can silence the signal's bleed. Darian… if we must get dirty."
Langley crossed his arms, unimpressed. "Seraphina can shield an entire squad. Kai gets them in. Barry sniffs out danger. Solus can follow that signal straight through dimensions."
"Raven's good with aerial recon," Silas added with a smirk. "Or at least dramatically staring down from rooftops."
Langley grunted. "She gets that from Barry."
"Well, look at you two," he said, leaning between them with a cocked brow. "Bickering over existential horror just like you did in college. All that's missing is cheap ale, worse ideas, and Veymar getting us kicked out of the library for summoning a demon librarian."
"I corrected the librarian's attitude," Veymar said dryly.
"And you," Silas gestured to Langley, "spent half a semester trying to prove mutant power is just misunderstood divine magic."
Langley didn't look up. "Still might be."
Silas grinned, teeth flashing. "Glad to see some things don't change. Now saddle up, professors. Apocalypse waits for no thesis defense."
Veymar exhaled slowly, the swirling glyphs around him dimming to a faint thrum. He lifted his gaze to Silas, eyes burning with age-earned fire and arcane resolve.
"Excuse me, old friend," he said with deliberate weight, "but the last time you doubted me, I single-handedly dragged Malak the Cambion through the Veil and left his charred bones in Havenford's ruins. You may have your armies. I am the storm."
His robes whispered like flame as he turned, the ground faintly vibrating with each step as ambient mana curled in reverence.
Silas only smirked—slow, dangerous, and amused. The kind of smirk forged in battlefields and war rooms, carved between bullets and burned bridges.
"Yeah, yeah," he muttered, thumbing open a fresh tactical feed. "You're a one-man cataclysm. But this time, we're walking into Phantom Isles."
He tapped the datapad, and a hollow ping echoed from the table. A map unfolded—an expanse of rotting forests, crimson fog, and flickering ley lines twisted beyond comprehension.
"Yokai territory," Silas said, voice low now. "That ain't your average hellspawn with a grudge. We're talking blood gods with forgotten names and spirits who remember what it felt like to be gods themselves."
He glanced up, steel in his stare. "That's not something you 'storm' through, Veymar. That's something you survive."
Veymar raised a brow, amused. "I don't plan to survive. I plan to end it."
Langley finally broke the silence, arms crossed tight. "And I plan to understand it. Because what's waking up out there isn't just spiritual. It's mutant. Something deep. Something old."
Silas nodded, tone dropping into command. "Then we go with everything. Arcaneum's mystics. Hall of M's gifted. And my best black ops from Sentinel Corps."
His voice hardened, smirk returning like a scar that never healed. "Because if the Yokai want to dance, we bring the whole damn orchestra."
Three days later, the sky above Phantom Isles split with the roar of descent. The Capitol Patrol Guard carrier, black as war-forged iron and humming with suppressed energy, cut through the clouds like a blade. It descended with militant grace, its armored hull casting an ominous shadow over the sea of mist below. The ramp hissed open.
Commander Silas Morrigan was the first to emerge—black coat billowing against the salt-thick wind, eyes veiled behind mirrored tactical lenses. Behind him, the towering forms of two upgraded Sentinels followed—perfect mechanical titans, sculpted for annihilation, their exo-frames humming with silent menace. These weren't mere machines. They were hunter-killers, programmed with every mutant signature known to the Edenian Councils.
Veymar stepped forward next, his robes whispering arcane syllables as ethereal glyphs rotated around him like orbiting moons. Power pulsed through him in steady waves, the kind that made birds fall silent and the air crackle.
Professor Langley "M" emerged beside him, coat dusty from travel, a tablet already flickering in his grip. His eyes swept the land ahead—not with dread, but curiosity. Following him, the selected mutants descended: Barry's heavy boots thudding onto the soil, Seraphina's shield shimmering faintly around her, and Blink vanishing in a wisp of violet smoke before reappearing beside Kevin, who lit his fingertips in a nervous flicker of flame.
They expected ruin. Maybe carnage. But what they saw—Was a dream. A town unfolded before them, basked in soft indigo twilight. The Endless Festival.
It was a place no longer bound to time—where night never ended, yet never decayed. Lanterns floated in the air, glowing gently like memories. Music—foreign, stringed, and echoing with ancient laughter—wove between silken flags that fluttered in windless air.
Yokai wandered the cobbled streets with casual grace: horned merchants haggled over ghost-fruit beneath moonlight stalls, spider-limbed seamstresses stitched silk from nothingness, and translucent children laughed while chasing wind spirits. Shapes shifted as they moved—some animal, some shadow, others abstract as forgotten gods. It was… peaceful. Too peaceful.
Silas didn't lower his rifle. "This place," he muttered under his breath, "looks like a painting right before the brush tears the canvas."
Veymar was already walking forward, gaze wide and cautious. "No illusions. This is real," he murmured. "But not natural."
Langley looked to the sky. "Something's sustaining it. This isn't just cultural. This is maintained… like a spell… or a machine."
The Yokai watched them—not afraid, not hostile. Merely… curious. As if they expected them.