Yuri staggered through the iron-banded gates of the compound, each step leaving a smudge of blood on the polished obsidian floor. The air inside was unnaturally cold, laced with the sterile scent of alchemical preservatives and scorched metal. Walls of dull silver steel stretched high, embedded with arcane runes that pulsed faintly like a heartbeat. Dim blue lights lined the ceiling—mana-powered orbs flickering intermittently as if the compound itself breathed in quiet menace.
Deep in the heart of this cold machine of war, past thick doors engraved with battle scenes and the insignia of the Eastern Empire, lay the inner sanctum: the command chamber. Twin statues of armor-clad knights flanked its threshold, their hollow eye sockets watching all who passed.
Yuri collapsed in front of them, panting, his armor cracked and scorched. Blood gushed from the stump of his right arm, soaking his side and dripping freely onto the floor, leaving a grotesque trail behind him.
He looked up at one of the guards—stone-faced, eyes forward, unmoving. "Aren't you going to help me?" His voice cracked, edged with pain.
The guard didn't blink.
The chamber doors creaked open with mechanical groans and hissing hydraulics, revealing the silhouette of a man draped in a deep blue officer's uniform. His coat was pristine—silver buttons polished, collar stiff, gloves immaculate. Lance Sterling. Tall, lean, composed. His blonde hair was slicked back, but a few strands had come loose, resting on his temple. His eyes—sharp, cold, calculating—locked onto Yuri without a hint of recognition or sympathy.
Lance stepped forward, crouching with eerie calm until his face was level with Yuri's. His voice was low, sharp, each syllable cut from steel. "What are you doing here?"
"I… need help," Yuri groaned, his face pale from blood loss.
Lance's nose twitched faintly as the scent of iron filled the air. He stood slowly, as if disappointed. "Help?" he echoed. "You're bleeding all over my floor."
He planted his boot firmly on Yuri's head, pressing down with deliberate weight. "I told you what failure would bring, didn't I?"
Yuri clawed at the polished boot with his remaining hand, face contorted in pain. "I can't die! I have a destiny!"
"Your destiny is shit. And so is your loyalty." Lance's voice lowered further. "Every other knight died without a word. They bled out for the cause. But you? You ran." His boot slammed into Yuri's side, sending him sprawling across the cold floor with a pained gasp.
Lance's lip curled in disgust as he looked down at the bloodied stump. "You lost your damn hand," he muttered. "You're not just weak—you're incomplete."
"I don't want to see your face again." Lance snapped his fingers, and two guards stepped forward. With mechanical efficiency, they lifted Yuri off the ground.
"You arrogant prick!" Yuri thrashed weakly, vision blurring. "We had a deal! I was going to cleanse this world—purify it—with your help! Don't you understand?!"
Lance didn't look back. The door hissed shut behind him.
⸻
Inside the command corridor, the humming of unstable mana generators echoed through the steel walls. Pipes ran along the ceiling, leaking faint streams of hot vapor that snaked across the floor like ghosts. Lance walked briskly, the sound of his boots echoing sharply with each step.
He entered the control room, a cramped, dimly lit space dominated by a massive, boxy computer the size of a small carriage. Mana conduits ran through its body like veins, and reams of data spewed from a humming printer beside it. Operators in dull green uniforms tapped away at levers and rotary dials, their hands trembling ever so slightly at his presence.
One officer flinched as Lance stopped behind him. The officer's screen buzzed faintly, struggling to keep pace with the inputs. "Sir… the airship is nearly ready for deployment. Once we confirm final calibrations, we can—"
Lance placed a hand on the man's shoulder. "I wouldn't rely on the Westorians staying ignorant. They're more clever than you think." His grip tightened slightly—just enough for the officer to wince. "This ship better be worth the years we poured into it. If it fails…"
The officer swallowed hard, eyes flicking toward the printout. "I-it won't, sir. I assure you. With their armies unaware of our aerial capabilities, we'll have the upper hand."
Lance nodded, then paced the room like a coiled predator. "The upper hand is temporary. The moment they understand, they'll copy it. They always do. Our firearms, our engines—they won't be secrets forever."
He turned sharply. "I want every division redirected to the beaches of Cronus. The throne must fall before they can adapt."
Another officer hesitated, spinning in his chair. "But sir—if we move everything, the compound will be exposed."
"I have Imperial Knights still stationed here," Lance said coolly, his voice gaining a dangerous edge. "They are worth a thousand men. I don't need excuses. I need obedience."
Silence swallowed the room.
Lance stood at the observation window at the far end of the chamber. Outside, beyond layers of enchanted glass, the airship lay dormant on its launchpad—its hull sleek, dark, and angular. The sigils etched along its surface shimmered with mana. Soon, it would rise into the sky like a blade drawn from its sheath.
He didn't smile. But his eyes gleamed.
"The world doesn't change by compromise," Lance muttered under his breath. "It changes when someone takes the throne… and burns everything that held it before."
———
"This place is… empty?" Nina stepped onto the cracked stone of the abandoned port, her voice echoing against hollow walls. The warehouses stood like tombs—shutters half open, crates scattered, and smoke curling from spent campfires. Not a soul moved. Just the wind whistling between broken rafters.
Arthur swept his eyes across the vacant docks. "It had to be a trap!" he barked, turning. "We have to go—"
"Stop right there!"
The shout came from behind. A squad of six soldiers in Imperial gear emerged from the alley between two storage units. Mana-powered rifles were raised in unison, their sigils glowing with pale blue light.
"The Commander has ordered your execution immediately," the lead soldier growled.
Without hesitation, he pulled the trigger.
Mana flared. The bullet screamed toward Arthur.
Arthur's blade was halfway out before he'd even blinked—he twisted, sparks flying as his sword deflected the shot inches from his cheek. He grunted and dropped into stance. "Weapons out!"
The air split with gunfire.
Clyde spun to the side, blade flashing. Nina rolled behind a stack of crates, ducking a flurry of mana rounds that shattered the wood around her.
"Ren, freeze them!" Arthur shouted, parrying a bayonet strike and driving his sword through a soldier's chest.
Ren raised his white sword, eyes glowing silver. "Hya—!" But nothing happened. His mana flickered. Died. The blade fizzled in his grip.
"I can't!" he growled, shaking his arm. "It's not responding!"
Two soldiers broke from the formation, flanking Arthur from behind.
"Arthur!" Nina bolted forward, ignoring the bullets whizzing past her.
One struck her thigh.
"Nina!" Clyde cried, pivoting and cutting down the nearest soldier. She fell hard, her hand gripping the wound, teeth clenched in pain.
"Stop!" Ren yelled. He sprinted, heart hammering, trying to reach Arthur before the soldiers behind him could strike.
Before he could—
A blur of movement cut between them.
Milo.
He slashed through one soldier, ducked under a rifle swing, and swept the legs of another. One by one, they dropped—Milo's daggers a storm of steel and smoke.
He landed, panting, arms hanging at his sides. His sleeves were torn, his vest soaked in sweat and blood. "How about it?" he called out to Ren, beaming. "Did I do good, boss?"
Ren stood frozen. A breath passed. Then another.
"…Yeah," Ren said quietly, a slow, hesitant smile tugging at the edge of his lips. "You did."
"Really?!" Milo's eyes lit up. "I've wanted to hear you say that for so long! You're always so gloomy and I—"
The gunshot rang out like thunder.
A single mana bullet punched through the side of Milo's head.
He dropped instantly.
His body hit the ground in a heap of limbs and dust.
For a moment, no one moved. No sound. No breath. Just the wind.
Then Clyde turned, eyes burning. He lunged, driving his blade through the last remaining soldier's chest before the man could fire again.
"I was too late…" he muttered, withdrawing the blade with a dull scrape.
Ren was already on his knees. He flipped Milo over, hands trembling. The entry wound leaked mana-infused blood—still glowing faintly, even as the light faded from Milo's eyes.
"Milo… no…" Ren's voice cracked, though no tears came. "I—I did this…"
Clyde stepped forward, his expression carved from stone. "It's not your fault."
"No, it is!" Ren snarled, clenching his fists. "If I could just use my powers—if they'd worked like they were supposed to—he'd still be alive! I failed him!"
He grabbed one of Milo's daggers from the dirt, holding it in front of him like a relic.
"He was a good person. Loyal. Brave. He looked up to me… Why did it have to be him? Why not me?"
Clyde didn't speak. He just stood beside him—silent, steady. A blade without judgment.
Above them, the sun broke through the clouds in jagged beams of light.
And Milo's body lay still beneath it.
"Come on, Nina, I've got you," Clyde said, crouching beside her.
She blinked through the pain, clutching her thigh where the blood still seeped. "Wow… really?" she forced a grin, teeth gritted. "I must be special—getting carried by someone as handsome as you. Don't get used to it though."
Her smile trembled at the edges. She laughed, but it came out thin and watery.
Clyde chuckled softly. "Yeah, you're real lucky."
"Time to leave before they catch us still breathing," Arthur said, looking back toward Ren.
"Wait," Ren said quietly, still kneeling beside Milo's body. "Let me bury him. I'll be quick."
He didn't look up. His voice was hollow, but beneath it—something was cracking.
Arthur met his gaze. Then nodded.
⸻
The rooftop of the crumbling hotel in Stalport was still damp from the rain. Evening light bled into the clouds, casting long shadows over the rusted railings and broken tiles.
"You guys are okay!" Rin exclaimed as the door swung open and Arthur stepped through, followed by Elowen, Clyde, Ren, and Nina—still limping, supported by Clyde.
Reid turned to Sosuke and muttered, "I don't even want to ask…"
Sosuke didn't take his eyes off Ren. "What happened to Milo?"
The silence answered for them.
Ren's shoulders tensed. Nina looked away. Clyde's jaw clenched.
"…Right," Sosuke said, lowering his gaze. "Should've known something went wrong."
"Milo's… dead?" Reid asked, as if saying the words would make them less real. He staggered a step back and pressed a hand over his mouth. "We used to be good friends… back at Astralis. I shouldn't have stopped talking to him…"
No one replied.
Then Nina limped to the center of the group, brushing away the moisture in her eyes with her wrist. "Hey, come on now, guys! W-we can't just fall apart like this. Milo wouldn't want that, right?" Her voice cracked in the middle.
Ren turned toward her, his expression unreadable—until it wasn't.
"What would you know?" he said. "Why are you even here? You were practically useless out there."
Clyde stepped between them. "Ren—enough."
"I… I'm sorry," Nina said, her breath hitching. "I never said I was strong like you guys. I just wanted to help…"
"You're not?" Arthur raised an eyebrow. "Because that would've been nice to know beforehand."
"How was I supposed to know I'd…" Nina's voice faltered. "I thought I could do more." She sank to the ground, leaning against the parapet, legs folded beneath her. "I'm sorry."
"This isn't how we should be talking to each other!" Sosuke snapped. His voice carried, cutting through the rooftop haze. "We're accomplishing nothing by turning on each other! Milo died trying to protect you. That means something. If we let this destroy us, then his sacrifice is meaningless!"
Silence fell again.
Rin stepped forward and leaned beside Ren at the parapet, her gaze fixed on the horizon. "He talked about you, you know. A lot. Said he wanted to impress you. That you inspired him." She paused, then added, "I'm sorry. We should've gone together. We should've stayed a team."
Ren's lips parted slightly, then closed again. He looked at his hands—the same ones that failed to summon his powers—and clenched them so tightly they shook.
"You're right," he whispered. "We should've stayed together."
His eyes drifted toward Nina, still huddled on the ground. Something passed through them—guilt, grief, and something harder to name.
"It was her idea, so—" He stopped, trembling. "No. No, that's not fair."
Ren stepped back, exhaling sharply.
"It's not her fault. I have to go."
He turned without waiting for a response. His footsteps echoed off the rooftop's concrete as he moved briskly toward the stairwell. The metal door creaked open, then thudded closed behind him.
Rin watched the door for a moment, her arms folded. Then she turned and walked toward Nina, who was still sitting on the ground, hunched slightly, hugging her knees.
Rin stopped just in front of her and extended a hand. "Come on. Get up."
Nina looked at it. Hesitated. Then finally reached up and took it. Rin pulled her to her feet with surprising gentleness.
"Thanks…" Nina muttered, forcing a crooked smile. Her weight shifted unevenly, still favoring the leg with the bullet wound.
Rin kept her hand lightly on Nina's arm to steady her. "Can you try being honest next time?"
Nina's smile faltered. Her eyes lowered.
"Hhh… yeah." She let out a reluctant breath. "I just felt like I had to pretend I was strong. I mean… I was assigned to this team by the Commander himself."
"But pretending doesn't keep people alive." Rin's voice wasn't harsh, just quiet. Firm. "Your strength? That's not the problem."
She paused, trying to soften her tone.
"Your… leadership is lacking. I feel bad for you, Nina. But you messed up."
Nina stared at the rooftop tiles beneath her feet. Her voice was barely a whisper.
"…Mhm."
⸻
Later that evening, in the Stalport hotel
Moonlight bled through the curtain slats of Sosuke's room.
He slipped into a pair of loose shorts and tugged a plain white t-shirt over his head. With a long exhale, he collapsed backwards onto the bed, arms sprawled out.
"Ohhh… that's nice," he muttered, eyes half-lidded.
A knock. Then the door creaked open before he could even lift his head.
Isabelle stepped inside, her expression unreadable—caught somewhere between concern and stormy suspicion.
Sosuke bolted upright. "Isabelle! Uh—what are you doing here? And—W-why'd you just… come in?"
She didn't answer right away. Her eyes were locked onto him, but her thoughts seemed far away.
"What's your relationship with Sakurai?" she finally asked.
Sosuke froze. A heartbeat of silence stretched between them.
"…Shit," he whispered to himself, brushing his fingers through his hair, trying to appear casual.
"Well, uh…" he smiled faintly. "We're good friends, you know?"
Isabelle's brow furrowed. "I don't believe you." She stepped closer. "I think you're closer than you let on."
"I wouldn't say that…" Sosuke replied, voice trailing.
"Then why are you so hesitant to respond?" Isabelle's voice spiked with frustration. "If things were normal, you wouldn't act like I was interrogating you!"
Sosuke stood slowly, lifting his hands. "I'm sorry, okay? Just… relax."
"What about that night?" Isabelle said, her voice cracking just slightly. "I thought we were building toward something. Or maybe I got ahead of myself. I was afraid to ask, but now I feel like I already know the answer."
"It wasn't like that…" Sosuke said, stepping closer.
"Then what was it?" Isabelle reached out, hand trembling slightly—fingers just short of touching his chest.
Sosuke took a quiet step back. Out of reach. Avoiding her gaze.
That was enough.
Isabelle's face crumpled. Her hands dropped to her sides. She spun around and dashed out the door, tears streaking silently down her cheeks.
The door clicked shut.
Sosuke stood there for a moment, alone in the dim light. He let out a sigh and dragged both hands down his face.
"…Didn't help with anything I said," he muttered.
He sat back on the bed, arms resting on his knees. "This is tomorrow's problem."