Pungence walked through the shattered halls of Beniek Ruin, Eryndor held effortlessly under one arm, his limp body swaying with each step. In the other, Pungence cradled Ziraiah like a baby—one massive hand supporting her back and legs. Her head leaned against his chest, eyes half-lidded, body slack with exhaustion. Behind them, Gustein followed in silence, each footstep echoing against the fractured stone.
Without pausing his stride, Pungence reached into the folds of his coat and pulled out a slender, pen-like device—smooth and silver, with a faint glow running along its spine. A strek. He brought it to his mouth, pressing a finger against the crystal tip. His voice, low and commanding, resonated through the device:
"Bring the Waver to the crater. Prepare for prisoner intake—eighty, maximum."
---
Far above, slicing through the clouds in silence, a massive airborne leviathan hovered high above the surface. It was no ordinary ship.
This was a Waver— a flagship of The Binding Hand.
Sleek. Colossal. 100 metres in length.
Its body gleamed with a tri-tone finish of midnight blue, silver-white, and crimson red, adorned with angular panels and pulsating lights that traced its spine like veins of energy.
Eight gargantuan thrusters—two primary engines at the rear and six rotating stabilisers along the sides—emitted controlled bursts of cold blue flame, holding the ship perfectly suspended with unnatural silence. No mana radiated from it. This was a marvel of mineral-based propulsion—technology lost to most of the world, but perfected by the Binding Hand.
Atop the vessel flew a vast flag, its silk whipping through the stratospheric wind.
Emblazoned across it in bold cobalt letters:
THE BINDING HAND.
Smaller support Wavers—sleek escort crafts with reinforced frames—were docked atop its surface, locked into magnetic clamps like birds resting on a sky-whale.
---
Inside, the command deck was a hive of activity.
Operators in sharp suits moved across glowing floors and holographic interface panels, exchanging information with urgency and precision.
In the cockpit, at the helm stood a tall woman—9 feet in height, her back straight with discipline forged over decades.
Her wrinkled face bore the lines of age and experience, framed by soft pink hair pulled back in a tight knot.
She wore a long blue coat, its back stitched with the stark words:
"NONE
IS
ABOVE
THE
LAW."
Beneath it, a tailored purple suit hugged her frame, and a pair of glinting spectacles sat on her nose. She scanned the instruments and then spoke with calm authority:
"Aye, Captain. Turning now."
She rotated the helm.
The colossal ship obeyed.
---
Beside her, lounging with legs crossed, sat another woman.
10 feet tall, with tanned skin, and a completely bald scalp that reflected the ambient glow of the instruments.
She too bore the short, pointed ears of a high-order species and wore a bright pink suit, sharp and fitted.
Her eyes, half-lidded, watched the monitors with mild amusement, as if the chaos of the world were a minor inconvenience.
To her right, a middle-aged man with grey hair and steel eyes leaned on his elbow, dressed simply in grey trousers and a white shirt. He sat in silence, unmoving, as if waiting for a reason to be interested.
Behind them stood a fourth figure.
An imposing man, 11 foot 7, his arms folded neatly over a broad chest.
He wore a jet-black suit beneath a blue coat marked with the same phrase:
"NONE
IS
ABOVE
THE
LAW."
His brown hair was swept back neatly, and his face was clean-shaven, angular, and sharp.
He watched the skies ahead with quiet intensity.
---
The ship groaned faintly as its rear thrusters flared, burning brilliant blue. The vessel surged forward, tearing through the air at supersonic speed, the roar of its engines contained by stabilising fields that nullified external shockwaves.
They descended.
Their destination: the gaping crater blasted into the yilheim by Pungence—a yawning mouth that plunged into the heart of the Beniek Ruin.
---
The man in the black suit stepped forward.
"I believe it's my turn today."
He walked to a secure drawer and pulled it open. Metal cuffs—gleaming, heavy-duty restraints lined with vitalis suppression seal runes—rested inside.
He reached in and withdrew eighty, slotting them with quiet precision into a tactical carry-bag.
Then he stepped onto a glowing blue platform near the chamber's centre.
The platform pulsed, scanned him—and rose.
Like an elevator of light, it ascended through the central lift shaft, carrying him up to the roof of the Waver, where the wind screamed across the open metal deck.
He turned slowly, eyes adjusting to the altitude.
Countless smaller Wavers waited, docked in neat lines—each one shaped like a spearhead, crafted for speed, silence, and descent.
The wind whipped against his coat and hair.
He stepped into one of the crafts, settled into the pilot's seat, and lowered a helmet rig onto his head. Dozens of thin cables connected to neural relays at the base of the cockpit.
He pressed a yellow switch.
The docking clamps hissed.
The escort Waver hummed to life, its core pulsing blue.
It levitated, then launched—diving from the great ship and plummeting down the crater with a shriek of velocity.
---
Pungence raised the strek to his mouth, the sleek pen-like device catching the light.
"Send me a waver," he said.
---
High above the Beniek Ruin, within the command deck of the Mother Waver, the old woman in the purple suit glanced toward her crew.
"Alison," she ordered sharply, "go get Pungence."
A young woman stood up from her seat. She looked barely twenty, with short pink hair that brushed her neck, light beige skin, and pointed ears. Dressed in blue trousers and a crisp, long-sleeved white shirt, she moved with speed and precision.
She stepped onto the glowing blue platform. It scanned her body in a pulse of light—confirmed. The platform rose like an elevator shaft to the rooftop dock.
The wind hit her face as she stepped out. She walked briskly toward one of the smaller docked wavers—compact, efficient, and silent. Climbing in, she pulled the helmet down over her head, its black cables snapping into place.
She hit the yellow release button.
The magnetic anchors disengaged with a thrum.
The waver lifted, hovering in the air for a moment—then dove down into the ruined world below.
---
As Alison descended into the broken bones of Beniek, her eyes widened.
"Holy shit," she whispered. "There's an entire world down here..."
The waver glided through the ruin's jagged hollows until it found its target—Pungence, still towering like a mountain of purpose, Gustein standing just behind him.
The craft landed softly. The door slid open.
Pungence stepped inside first. Gustein followed, cautious and unsure.
Pungence laid Ziraiah gently into a padded seat, strapping her in with unexpected tenderness. Then he placed Eryndor beside her.
Alison raised a brow. "Who are they, pops? Unbound?"
Pungence shook his head. "No. Just unfortunate children."
He gestured to Eryndor. "That one looks about your age… though he's tiny. Malnourishment, maybe."
The waver was tall enough for Pungence to stand straight without lowering his head. Alison smirked.
"Well, take your seat, pops. We're heading out."
Pungence nodded, buckled the children in, then sat beside them. Gustein did the same.
Alison pressed a button. The hatch sealed shut.
The waver lifted, rose into the sky—and soared.
---
The ship emerged from the ruin's abyss, slicing through the air toward the Mother Waver above. It docked perfectly, returning to the exact berth it launched from. The anchor locks clamped down with a metallic click.
Inside, Pungence turned to Gustein.
"What's your name?"
"…Gustein," he replied.
"Alright, Gustein," Pungence said, standing. "Carry this one." He pointed to Eryndor.
Gustein quickly unbuckled and hoisted the boy into his arms.
Pungence carried Ziraiah in both hands like a sleeping child.
As they stepped onto the blue platform, Ziraiah's eyes slowly opened—just in time to see the impossible.
A hangar full of sleek wavers lined up in formation. Machinery humming. Dozens of personnel in futuristic uniforms. Screens glowed with data across every wall.
Her lips parted slightly in awe.
Is this… Yilheim? she thought. Isn't this a backward world?
The platform descended into the main cockpit.
The moment Pungence appeared, the crew stood.
"Welcome back, sir!"
Pungence waved a hand casually. "Come now, sit. It was just a short detour."
He moved to the large, black chair at the front—his name etched boldly into the metal back: PUNGENCE. He sank into it and crossed one leg over the other.
A man in a white shirt and grey trousers turned from a control station. He had middle-aged eyes and a sharp voice.
"Who are those three?"
Pungence smiled faintly. "Elvheins."
The cockpit froze.
"What?!"
Pungence turned his head calmly. "Alison, take them to the medical bay."
The man in white narrowed his eyes. "So is the Leporid also an Elvhein?"
"Relax, Blake," Pungence said. "He's harmless."
He turned toward the helm. "Sinthia?"
"Yes?" the old woman in the purple suit replied.
"Let's go."
Sinthia raised a hand. "Stander hasn't returned with the prisoners yet."
"Oh." Pungence leaned back. "Right."
"How many did you say there were?"
"Around eighty, might be less now."
Sinthia clicked her tongue. "Eighty of them won't fit in a standard waver."
Pungence's lips curled into a smirk. "Don't worry, Sinthia. Stander has his own methods."
---
Far below, slicing through clouds like a knife, Stander's waver emerged from the ruin.
But this was no ordinary flight.
Tethered to the back of the craft was a long, reinforced cord—and trailing from it…
Sixty-nine prisoners.
Unbounds. Raiders. Rebels.
They were all cuffed, bound together at the wrists, screaming as the wind whipped them through the sky like ragdolls. Their bodies flailed. Some tried to resist. Some just closed their eyes.
Among them were Dreados. Omfry. Jeriana. Lisa. Daiel. Sumshus. Anuel.
Omfry roared and thrashed, trying to snap the cuffs—but the rope held.
Inside the waver cockpit, Stander sat at ease. His coat flared slightly as he leaned back, one hand holding a strip of dried meat to his mouth.
He chewed, watching the bodies dangle below, his face calm and entertained. He smiled.
Stander's waver glided into the docking bay of the Mother Waver and locked into place with a metallic hiss. Inside the cockpit, he removed his helmet, revealing a calm expression beneath his tousled brown hair. Without a word, he stood and walked toward the exit.
The ramp lowered.
Behind him, the prisoners—Unbounds and raiders alike—lay sprawled across the floor, wind-whipped and defeated. The long rope connecting their cuffs to the waver's rear thrummed as it settled.
Stander took hold of it.
And began to walk.
The slack snapped taut, and like a train of chained beasts, the prisoners were dragged forward, stumbling behind him through the hangar.
---
They entered the main corridor of the Mother Waver. It was a long, sterile hallway lined with reinforced doors and glowing wall panels. Stander's boots echoed with each step as the defeated mass shuffled behind him, limbs heavy and heads low.
He passed by officers, engineers, and soldiers—some of whom looked up and smirked. Others paused to greet him.
"We finally caught the Black March," Stander said, pride in his voice. "It's a good day."
A young crewman, not much older than twenty-five, passed him and grinned. "We should celebrate after this."
Just as the words left his mouth, one of the prisoners lunged—an angry Reliard man with wild eyes and broken pride.
The young crewman moved like lightning. He sidestepped, pivoted, and drove a punch into the prisoner's jaw.
Teeth shattered. The Reliard collapsed to his knees, groaning.
The young man crouched beside him and spoke coldly.
"None of us here are pushovers, pal. Any one of us could end you. Remember that."
Anuel watched in stunned silence.
That Reliard was strong. He survived the ruin… and was taken out so easily? she thought. I never knew the Binding Hand was this powerful.
She turned her head toward Dreados, who walked just ahead of her—bound, bruised, and quiet.
"What are we gonna do, Dreados?" she whispered.
His answer came hollow and honest.
"…I don't know, Anuel. I don't know."
---
Eventually, Stander brought them to the lower deck—where reinforced cells awaited.
He opened the gates. One by one, the prisoners were dragged in and locked behind reinforced bars. The metal doors sealed with a thud, echoing like a judgment.
Stander didn't linger.
He turned and left, hands in his pockets.
---
He entered the cockpit moments later. The large bridge buzzed with activity. Monitors lit up with data, engineers relayed status reports, and officers prepared for departure.
Sinthia noticed him.
"We're ready to go, sir," she announced.
Pungence nodded from his chair. "Good."
Sinthia picked up a sleek, microphone-like device and pressed the trigger.
Her voice rang out through every corridor, every chamber, every deck of the Mother Waver:
> "All personnel—take your seats and strap yourselves in. We will be breaching sonic speeds in sixty seconds."
A wave of movement swept across the ship.
Officers ran. Soldiers scrambled. Scientists fastened their gear. Prisoners braced. Medical teams rushed to strap in the injured. Doors sealed shut. Lights dimmed to emergency blue.
A countdown appeared on every screen across the vessel.
60... 59... 58...
Pungence leaned back in his chair. Gustein sat quietly nearby. Ziraiah and Eryndor slept peacefully, strapped under the medical blankets in the recovery bay.
10... 9... 8...
Outside, the thrusters ignited—eight blazing engines humming with power not from mana, but from something rarer. Something forbidden. The kind of energy the world no longer understood.
3... 2... 1—
The ship blasted forward.
The Mother Waver tore across the sky, faster than sound, punching through clouds like a spear of blue flame.
Behind it, the ruin was left behind.
But what it had birthed... would echo across history.
For on this day, Seeds had found their wielders.
And from the ashes of Beniek Ruin, the fate of Yilheim had begun to shift.
---
On another continent…
An explosion erupted.
The terrain split open with a thunder too bright to hear.
No warning. No mercy. Just brilliance.
A sun bloomed at ground level—furious, white, absolute.
At its centre stood a man.
Muscular. Shirtless. Green hair coiled down his back like a serpent.
His foot rested on the face of another man—his enemy, crushed beneath him but clutching his ankle with defiant hands.
The world died around them.
For twelve thousand kilometres in every direction, life ceased in an instant.
Forests disintegrated mid-breath. Mountains wept. Stone flowed like water. Nations vanished before they could scream.
At eighteen thousand, iron liquefied.
Flesh ignited.
Even the shadows caught fire.
Then came the shockwave.
A fist of godlike rage.
Wind howled louder than thunder, snapping cities in half.
Forty minutes later, it struck Valem's Reach, 20,000 kilometres away.
Spire by spire, the city crumbled. Men and women flew like dust. Bones cracked like twigs.
At 30,000 kilometres, farmers paused, felt warmth touch their faces… and wept without knowing why.
At 40,000, the monks of Derum—guardians of ancient balance—collapsed.
Their souls, trained for centuries, buckled under the echo.
And above…
Far, far above…
The sky had changed.
A column rose into the heavens.
Fifteen thousand kilometres tall.
Five thousand wide.
A tree of fire, of ruin, of memory.
Its roots buried in apocalypse.
Its crown brushing the thrones of gods.
---
Yardrad, 60 Minutes Later
The Mother Waver shook.
Mid-flight, the vessel convulsed violently as the distant shockwave caught up.
The hull screamed. Lights flickered. Metal groaned.
Those not strapped in were thrown.
In the medical bay, Eryndor and Ziraiah tumbled from their beds.
Monitors sparked. A doctor slammed against the wall.
In the prison wing, Dreados, Omfry, Anuel, Lisa, and the rest of the Black March hit the floor, groaning in confusion.
Sinthia gripped her seat with practiced calm as the vessel fought to stabilise.
Pungence didn't move—yet his eyes burned.
He reached into his coat, pulled out his strek, and pressed the side.
His voice was fire.
"You fool. What have you done?"
Far away, darting through the upper skies of Yardrad at sonic speed, a hooded figure tapped his own strek.
His voice came back—cool, sharp, and bemused.
"I didn't do anything. I'm just as surprised as you."
Pungence's jaw clenched.
"Don't lie to me."
The voice replied with mocking ease.
"If it was me… you'd be fighting right now. You wouldn't have time to speak.
Because all your comrades… would be dead.
Besides, this blast wasn't even in Yardrad.
I'm still here."
The line went dead.
Pungence lowered the strek slowly, his knuckles white.
He stared ahead, fury knotting his brow.
---
In the medical bay, a silent figure in white robes stepped forward.
With gentle strength, he lifted Eryndor and Ziraiah—placing them back on their beds with reverent care.
On the bridge, Sinthia turned in her chair, voice even.
"Do we turn around?"
Pungence didn't look at her.
"No…"
His voice was low. Final.
"I will go there personally."
---
To Be Continued...