Anton staggered through the back alleys of New Greenwich, his vision swimming with exhaustion. The city's slums blurred around him, neon signs pulsing like feeble heartbeats in the fog. Blood from the gash at his temple had dried in jagged lines down his cheek, and his CAT flickered erratically against his palms as the chip in his brain glitched from overload.
In his pocket was the device he'd pried from the Syndicate convoy—an obsidian casing etched with sigils that glowed faintly beneath layers of soot and blood.
By the time he reached the edge of New Greenwich, he was barely standing. He stumbled into the entrance of a half-buried club front lined with graffiti and false signs. Two sentries at the door recognized him and moved quickly, pulling him inside without a word. One tapped his ear piece and alerted the others: the Ghost was back.
Anton collapsed into a chair in the makeshift operations room below ground. Screens flickered on ancient consoles; stolen Aetherium rigs hummed with overclocked magic. His core team—a hacker named Fenn, a former NovaMyst engineer named Lyris, and a rogue data-runner called Whisper—sprang into action.
"We need a clean surface scan," Anton muttered, tossing the device onto the table. "Now. No uplinks, no pings. Nothing traceable. Just crack the bloody thing."
Fenn nodded, already donning his visor. "What the hell did you drag in, Anton? This thing's got its own failsafes. Not just encrypted—segmented, air-gapped security."
"Then burn through it," Anton said. "I need answers."
Anton's voice hung in the air, sharp and brittle, as the hum of the Aetherium rigs filled the underground room. The obsidian rootkit sat on the table like a cursed relic, its sigils pulsing faintly, a taunting promise of secrets locked within. Fenn adjusted his visor, his fingers trembling slightly as he interfaced with the device through a jury-rigged console. Lyris, her engineer's precision evident in her steady hands, connected a series of Aetherium conduits to stabilise the rootkit's volatile core, while Whisper darted between screens, her data-runner instincts scanning for any trace of Syndicate pings.
"It's a fortress," Fenn muttered, his voice muffled by the visor's feedback. "Layered encryption, segmented like a bloody vault. Air-gapped failsafes, self-destruct scripts, and something else—feels like it's watching us." His optic mods glowed faintly, reflecting the rootkit's sigils as he probed deeper.
Anton leaned forward, ignoring the stab of pain in his skull. The chip in his brain glitched again, static crackling through his vision, a reminder of the toll his restoration ability had taken. "Burn through it," he repeated, his tone low, almost feral. "I don't care how long it takes. We need what's inside."
Lyris glanced at him, her eyes narrowing with concern. "This isn't just NovaMyst tech, Anton. It's got Syndicate fingerprints and cybernetic code—the kind they use for those 'improvements' running about in the Abyss. If we crack it wrong, it could fry our systems. Or worse, send a beacon straight to us."
"Then don't crack it wrong," Anton snapped, his hands clenching into fists. Irina's face flashed in his mind—her tears, her refusal—a wound that bled into every decision. He didn't know why she'd abandoned him, and the not-knowing was a fire consuming him. This rootkit, this cursed key, was his only path forward. If it held proof of who framed Nate, who ordered the grid and the academy attacked, he'd tear it open or die trying.
Whisper's fingers paused on her console, her voice a whisper. "It's starting to fight back. Look." A monitor flickered, displaying a cascade of red lettering—counter-intrusion protocols activating within the device. The air grew heavy, Aetherium crackling as the device's defences pushed against their probes.
Anton's jaw tightened. "Keep going," he said. "We're not stopping."
The Abyss District of New London was a beast that never slept, its veins pulsing with neon and desperation. Rain-slicked streets reflected the jagged glow of counterfeit Aetherium signs, their promises of power and escape flickering like lies. Nate Davis—Drakkar, knight of the Arundel family—moved through the shadows, his pink katana sheathed but humming with latent menace at his side. The air was thick with the stench of burned circuits and unwashed bodies, a symphony of chaos that felt more like home than NovaMyst ever could.
He stood at the edge of a makeshift barricade, one of Dax's outposts in the heart of the district. The teen leader's crew—ragged kids—watched him with a mix of awe and suspicion. Nate had been with Dax's group for about a month, but his reputation as the district's protector preceded him, earning him the nickname "The Watcher."
Dax leaned against a rusted pillar, his dark eyes glinting under the brim of his cap. "You're stretching us thin, Watcher," he said, his voice low, clipped, like a blade testing its edge. "More mouths to feed, more bodies to protect. You keep dragging in strays, but you haven't a plan to keep 'em alive."
Nate's jaw tightened, his demonic senses picking up the faint hum of Aetherium in the air—wild, unstable, the kind that could spark a riot or a massacre. "I'm not here to play house, Dax," he said, his tone pure noir, all grit and shadow. "I'm keeping the real trouble off your back. You want plans? Start trusting the people I'm bringing in."
Dax snorted, folding his arms. "Trust? In the Abyss? You're either naive or madder than they say." His gaze flicked to the katana, then back to Nate's eyes. "You're good at breaking things, I'll give you that. But leading? That's not just swinging a sword. We look to you now. You muck it up, we die."
Nate's fingers twitched, the weight of Dax's words sinking like lead. He wasn't built for this—guiding, inspiring, all that heroic nonsense. He was a weapon, forged in Hell and bound to Elysia, meant to protect, to kill, not to shepherd a ragtag army of outcasts. But the Abyss had a way of rewriting your story, and Nate was learning that the hard way.
Frantic footsteps echoed behind him, wet soles slapping the cracked concrete in a syncopated rhythm. A scrawny teen—Ryn, one of Dax's runners—skidded around the corner, breath ragged, eyes wide.
"Watcher!" he called, stumbling to a stop in front of Nate. "There's some bloke—fancy type, suit and gloves—he's been asking for you. Offering AC. A lot of it."
Nate turned, his eyes narrowing. The air around him chilled, tension curling beneath his skin. "AC?"
"Yeah," Ryn nodded quickly, glancing between Nate and Dax. "Proper clean-looking. Like, corporate-clean. Hair slicked back, not a speck of dirt on him. Says he'll pay anyone who gives up where you're staying, who you're with, what you're doing."
Dax straightened, jaw locking. "What's he want with you?"
Ryn shrugged. "Didn't say. Just kept flashing credits and asking questions. Asked if you were still working for the Arundels, if you had Syndicate backing, if you were armed. Odd stuff."
Nate exhaled through his nose, slow and steady, his gaze scanning the darkness beyond the barricade. The rain fell harder, distant thunder vibrating through the soaked scaffolding overhead.
"You think he's Syndicate?" Dax asked, voice low.
Nate shook his head. "If he was, he wouldn't be asking questions."
"Then who?" Dax's tone sharpened. "One of the families? Another bounty hunter? Someone else sniffing for dirt?"
"Could be all of the above," Nate muttered, eyes flicking to Ryn. "You didn't tell him anything, right?"
Ryn recoiled, shaking his head so hard his hood slipped off. "Swear on my life. Just kept moving. Didn't even look at him when he talked. Just ran."
Nate nodded. "Good. Stay that way."
Dax crossed his arms, frown etched deep across his brow. "You going to meet him?"
"Yeah," Nate said, his voice flat. "But not blind."
He turned toward Dax, stepping close enough that the tension in the air vibrated between them. "Double the security. I don't care how many people we've got—post them at every entrance. If anyone shows up asking for me by name, you give them nothing. Not a glance. Not a whisper."
Dax gave a sharp nod. "And if they flash AC?"
Nate's eyes flashed, a pink glow pulsing faintly at the corners. "You tell them the Abyss doesn't deal in bribes. It deals in consequences."
Dax smirked despite himself. "Now that sounds like you."
Nate turned to Ryn. "Where did you see him last?"
"Edge of Fifth Sector," the boy replied. "He was just… waiting. Like he knew someone would come."
"Good," Nate said, his voice dropping. "Then let's not disappoint."
He adjusted the sword at his side as he strode toward the rain-slicked corridor that led deeper into the underworld. His boots echoed with purpose. The man in the suit wanted a meeting.
He was about to get one.
The Fifth Sector of the Abyss District stank of rust and old blood.
Nate moved through the crowd like a phantom, every step calculated, his senses wide open. Dax's warnings still rang in his ears, but so did something colder—the silence of the city before a storm.
He saw the man before the man saw him.
Impossibly well-dressed.
A tailored obsidian coat without a speck of grime, shoes polished to a mirror finish, and a silver tie pin carved into the shape of a thorned ring—Nate clocked every detail in a heartbeat. The man's hair was slicked back, his face pale and angular, like he belonged at a high council dinner, not standing near a rusted med-hall with cracked windows.
He was smiling.
Nate approached slowly, hand resting on his katana. "You've been looking for me."
The man's eyes flicked to him, unbothered. "Nathaniel Davis? Or do you prefer 'Watcher' now?"
Nate didn't answer.
The man exhaled as if Nate had confirmed something. "Good. That means we can skip the posturing." He pulled out a small case, opened it, and revealed an AC Vest Credit clearance card. Embedded on its surface wasn't his name—but a seal Nate had seen only once before.
The Read family crest.
Miles away, in the buried club front of New Greenwich, the device's decryption dragged on, a battle of wills between Anton's team and the device's defences. The air was thick with ozone and tension, the Aetherium rigs whining under the strain. Fenn's visor glowed, his fingers dancing across his console as he navigated the segmented encryption. "It's like peeling a bloody onion," he growled. "Every layer's got its own trap—polymorphic code, adaptive AetherScripts, and a kill switch that'll torch the whole thing if we slip."
Lyris adjusted the conduits, her hands steady despite the sweat beading on her brow. "It's not just protecting data," she said, her voice tight. "It's thinking. I've never seen anything quite like this."
Back in the Abyss, Nate didn't flinch.
"You work for the Reads?" he asked flatly.
The man didn't deny it. "They've taken a… renewed interest in NovaMyst affairs. Particularly in your circle. Miss Arundel, specifically."
The air went still.
Nate's voice dropped. "What do they want?"
"To secure an alliance. Through marriage," the man said, as if reading from a script. "They believe Lady Arundel has become… vulnerable. Politically isolated. Your association with her, and her closeness to both you and the Rawllings girl, complicates things."
"Let me guess," Nate said, stepping forward, "you're here to clean it up."
"On the contrary," the man replied. "I'm here to extend an offer. Walk away. Sever ties with Lady Arundel. Publicly, the Reads will see to it that she's protected—elevated, even. Her political capital restored. You, in turn, will be left alone, with a tidy sum."
"And if I say no?"
The man's smile remained, but his eyes sharpened. "Then unfortunate things may begin to happen in this district."
Anton's team pushed harder now. Whisper's screens flickered, red runes pulsing faster. "It's fighting harder now," she said, her voice edged with panic. "We're close, but if we push too far, it'll lock us out—or worse."
Anton stood over the table, his bloodied hands clenched, chip sparking pain through his skull. "Keep going," he said, his voice a raw command. "We're not stopping until it breaks."
Back in the Abyss, Nate's hand closed around the hilt of his katana. "You're threatening a district full of refugees. Over a marriage contract."
The man tilted his head. "Call it… realpolitik."
Nate stepped closer, eyes blazing. "Tell your masters this: if they lay one finger on anyone here, I'll remind them that hell isn't just a place."
The man studied him for a long moment, then tucked the card away and gave a slight bow. "A pity. But you've made your choice." He turned to leave, his footsteps too calm for a man who'd just stirred a hornet's nest.
Nate watched him go, the words echoing like iron bells in his mind.
The Reads were making their move.
At the same time, back in New Greenwich, hours bled into one another.
Fenn cracked the first layer, revealing schematics—cybernetic implants designed to override CATs. The second layer yielded a list: Purity Front targets, mages marked for death, their names tied to NovaMyst's own records. The third layer was the deepest yet, and when it finally gave way, the truth spilled across the screens like poison.
NovaMyst wasn't just ATRA's Aethertech heart—it was a traitor to itself. The data showed the academy funnelling tech to the Syndicate, arming their black-market implants, while simultaneously feeding the Purity Front with hit lists and Aetherium stabilisers. Internal communiqués—redacted but damning—pointed to traitors within NovaMyst, perhaps even ATRA itself. They had orchestrated the grid attack, or at least let it happen, to destabilise the academy and pin the blame on Nate.
"Bloody hell," Whisper breathed, her eyes wide. "This is bigger than we thought. NovaMyst's eating itself, and they're using the Abyss as their testing ground."
Anton's gaze was fixed on the screen, his mind a storm of rage and betrayal. Irina's refusal echoed in his ears, her tears a ghost that wouldn't leave. Was she part of this? Had SoviaTechna known? The device—this rootkit—was a weapon. A key to free or enslave, and now it was proof of a war within the academy's walls.
He didn't know who to trust anymore—not Irina, not NovaMyst, not even himself.
"Leak it," he said, his voice cold, final. "Every contact, every mage, every district. Let them see what NovaMyst's hiding."
Fenn hesitated, his visor reflecting the data's glow. "This'll burn everything, Anton. Syndicate, ATRA, they'll come for us."
"Then let them," Anton said, his eyes burning with a fire that scared even him.
Anton rolled up his sleeves, revealing the cold shimmer of his NullSpace gauntlets. "Hook me in," he said, his voice hoarse.
Lyris hesitated. "You're not patched. If this backfires, your nervous system could fry—"
"I'll be fine, Lyris."
He slammed both hands into the gauntlet docks. The system flared to life, lines of sigils erupting into the air around him like tangled constellations. Aetherium surged through the conduits, and the connection hit like a hammer.
Threadlines exploded into view—filaments of luminous data, each a vein of government surveillance, Syndicate control protocols, NovaMyst encryption. He threaded his consciousness through the lines, diving past firewalls that screamed like banshees, past Scrying Specters that clawed at the edges of his mind.
Reality bent. Time slowed.
He was in.
A virtual skyline of mirrored towers and arcane glyphs stretched before him, the metastructure of Eurastra's classified networks. Every movement of his hands traced glowing RootSigils through the air. Every sigil he cast reconfigured the code—slipping past safeguards, rewriting permissions, unlocking silent doors.
But the system was waking up.
Specters howled. A Hexfire Ward flared in front of him, pulsing red and gold. Anton slashed a counter-script midair, Aetherium erupting in violet sparks as he punched through. His mind throbbed with the strain, the chip in his skull overheating.
He didn't stop.
With a twist of his fingers, he launched the data across relay points—splitting it, ghosting it, threading it through the Netvoid. Thousands of encrypted shards burst across the continent, targeting black-market dead drops, whistleblower hubs, Abyss district terminals, and anti-ATRA networks.
The truth would spread like wildfire. Untraceable. Unstoppable.
As the system retaliated, trying to isolate his signal, Anton's hands moved faster. His fingers blurred, executing a final glyph sequence—
~UNLOCK // PURGE // LEAK
He jerked back from the rig as power surged. Sparks flew from the console. Fenn caught him before he hit the floor.
Anton's breathing was ragged. His eyes glowed faintly, remnants of the threading still dancing across his vision.
"It's done," he rasped.
As the first encrypted packets uploaded to black-net channels across Eurastra, Nate stood at the edge of a neon-lit alley, his sword humming quietly. The suited man's warning echoed like a prophecy.
Lines were being drawn.
And the next war wouldn't be fought in classrooms or courts.
Nate stood at the edge of the neon-lit alley, rain drumming a relentless tattoo against the cracked pavement. His pink katana hummed faintly at his side, a restless pulse that matched the storm brewing in his chest. The suited man's parting words—"unfortunate things may begin to happen"—rang like a death knell, a promise of chaos creeping closer to the Abyss District. The Read family wasn't just flexing their political muscle; they were coiling a noose around Elysia, using Nate as the bait to tighten it. He clenched his fists, demonic senses flaring as he scanned the shadows, half-expecting an ambush to materialise from the flickering glow of counterfeit Aetherium signs.
The Abyss District sprawled around him, a labyrinth of rust and desperation, its veins alive with the hum of illicit tech and the murmurs of its ragged inhabitants. A month ago, he'd been a fugitive, a knight without a cause, carving a bloody path through Syndicate enforcers to keep Elysia safe. Now, he was "The Watcher," a name whispered with equal parts reverence and fear among Dax's crew—kids, Voiders, and Blanks who'd latched onto him like he was some kind of saviour. But leadership was a jagged blade, and every step he took cut deeper into his resolve.
He turned back toward the outpost, boots crunching on wet gravel, and found Dax waiting, arms crossed, his cap casting shadows over his sharp eyes. The teen leader didn't move, didn't speak, just watched Nate with that mix of suspicion and grudging respect that had become their unspoken dance.
"Meeting went well, I take it?" Dax said finally, his voice dry as ash.
Nate stopped a few paces away, rain dripping from his hair. "Read family," he said flatly. "They want me to walk away from Elysia. Offered credits and protection if I do."
Dax's brow lifted, but his expression stayed hard. "And if you don't?"
"They'll make trouble here," Nate replied, his tone pure noir grit. "Target the district. Use it to pressure her."
A low whistle escaped Dax's lips, more bitter than surprised. "Royals slumming it to strong-arm you. That's a new one." He shifted, glancing at the barricade where a couple of kids adjusted makeshift tripwires. "You're bringing heat we can't handle, Watcher. I told you—more bodies, more problems. Now it's not just Syndicate goons; it's highborn snakes with deep pockets."
Nate's jaw tightened, the weight of it sinking in. Dax wasn't wrong—his presence was a magnet for trouble, and the Abyss was already a powder keg. Every stray he'd saved, every Syndicate thug he'd cut down, had built his reputation, but it also stretched Dax's crew thin. They looked to him now, these ragged survivors, their eyes hungry for something he wasn't sure he could give. He was a weapon, not a leader—forged to protect Elysia, not to shepherd a district of outcasts. Yet here he was, caught in a web of loyalty and consequence.
"I'm not asking you to fight my battles," Nate said, stepping closer, his voice low. "But I'm not abandoning her—or this place. They want a war, they'll get one."
Dax studied him, the rain streaking down his cap. "Big words. Hope you've got the muscle to back 'em up. 'Cause if they hit us, it's not just you they'll bury."
Encrypted data surged through the black-net like venom, spreading from New Greenwich's underbelly to every corner of Eurastra. Underground screens flared to life, their cracked surfaces spilling one damning revelation after another: mage registries stolen from NovaMyst's vaults, internal memos tying the academy to Syndicate black-market deals—a name the masses wouldn't recognise, just another shadow in their misery—transaction records linking ATRA's golden heart to the Purity Front's hit lists. Cybernetic implant schematics designed to separate CATs from ATRA's oversight. Blacklists of dissident mages. And, most chilling, a blurred holo-image: a Purity Front commander clasping hands with a masked NovaMyst representative, their silhouette eerily familiar, someone Anton might've passed in the academy's halls. A shattered timestamp on a logistics manifest burned brightest: the grid explosion, flagged three days before it tore New London apart.
The truth was a wildfire, and Anton's rootkit had lit the match.
Under rusted overhangs in the Abyss District, a crowd huddled in the relentless rain, their faces gaunt from months of curfews and containment zones. An illegal broadcaster's voice crackled from a scavenged holo-rig, replaying the decrypted footage on a loop.
"The grid explosion—planned. NovaMyst's tech in mysterious hands, Purity Front kill lists blamed on us." The "Syndicate" memos meant nothing to a district blind to their true masters. The higher powers—ATRA, NovaMyst—hadn't just failed them; they'd engineered their suffering, tightening the screws on a district already choking under forced labour, black-market implants, and martial law. The Abyss had been a tinderbox of riots before, but this was different. This was betrayal, carved in blood.
A woman's sob broke the silence, then a man's curse. Fury ignited like a spark in dry grass. A rusted pipe sailed through the air, crashing into a controlled checkpoint. The station erupted in a fireball, Aetherium igniting in a blinding flash. The crowd roared, not just in the Abyss but beyond—riots spilling past containment barriers, rebels armed with scavenged tech and raw desperation storming ATRA outposts in New London's fringes. The conflict was no longer caged within the district's walls; it was a beast unleashed, clawing at the city's heart. Barricades fell, curfew drones were shot from the sky, and the Abyss fought back, a rebellion born in fire and fed by the truth Anton had set free.
In the council chamber of NovaMyst, chairs screeched against marble as the Upper Council erupted in chaos. Holograms of the leaked data flickered above the table, each revelation a dagger to the academy's reputation. High figures—professors, nobles, ATRA liaisons—shouted over one another, their voices a cacophony of panic and accusation. Headmaster Lillian sat at the head, his weathered face unreadable as he leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled, eyes glinting with something unplaceable—resignation, perhaps, or calculation.
Councillor Veyra, a hawkish woman with a voice like steel, slammed her fist on the table. "Enough!" she barked, turning to the faculty. "Someone made those deals. Syndicate crates with our seals, Purity Front lists with our codes—whoever did this, step forward now, or I swear we'll tear this academy apart to find you!"
The room fell silent, but no one moved. Suspicion hung like a guillotine, each councillor eyeing the others, wondering who wore the traitor's mask.
At the Read Estate, a long banquet table gleamed under crystal chandeliers, wine untouched in delicate glasses. The silence was heavy, broken only by a measured, cold laugh from a man with a silver tiepin shaped like a thorned ring. "Chaos opens a new door," he said, his voice smooth as venom.
Lady Margaret Read, matriarch of the family, nodded from the head of the table, her eyes sharp as a blade. "Then it's time we shut it behind Elysia Arundel. Permanently."
In a Syndicate safehouse, a monitor lay shattered, its fragments glinting on the concrete floor. A man with wires snaking beneath his skin—veins pulsing with cybernetic light—clenched his fists, the air around him crackling with suppressed Aetherium. "Well, looks like someone's finally made their move," he growled, his voice a low rasp. "This works perfectly. Contact Roth. We can't let this opportunity pass."
The reconstruction chamber for the grid was a maelstrom of dysfunction. Aetherium stabilisers pulsed erratically, their glow casting jagged shadows across the walls. Holograms of allied academies flickered in and out, their representatives' faces twisted with distrust. The Joint Reconstruction Initiative, once a beacon of cross-academy unity, was crumbling under the weight of Anton's leak. NovaMyst, ATRA's magitech heart, was now a pariah, even more than before, its allies whispering of betrayal, its enemies sharpening their knives.
Chloe slammed her hand onto a terminal, the clang echoing in the tense silence. "We didn't leak anything," she said, her voice taut with controlled fury. "We didn't authorise those shipments. Someone's using us."
Master Kael Vorn of SoviaTechna Front Academy leaned forward, his cybernetic eye whirring as it fixed on her. "Then perhaps it's time NovaMyst explained why its own biometric seal was found on Syndicate crates," he said, his tone cold, accusing.
Chloe's fists tightened, but her voice remained steady. "We're investigating the breach."
Elysia stepped forward, her presence cutting through the room like a blade. Fury simmered beneath her composed exterior, but she forced her voice to carry authority. "Enough," she said, her blue eyes sweeping the holograms. "This isn't about pointing fingers—it's about survival. The Joint Reconstruction Initiative cannot collapse. If we let this fracture us, the grid stays broken, and Eurastra falls to the Syndicate or worse. We double our efforts, share resources, and root out the traitors together. Anything less is surrender."
Her words hung in the air, a challenge to the wavering allies. Professor Hiroshi Tan of Shin Kyūmirai Academy glanced at the holo-map of academies, his calm facade cracking. "Collapse is already here, Miss Arundel," he said softly. "Every academy now suspects infiltration. And if NovaMyst cannot contain its own students, or their 'dealings,' then it is no longer the heart of Eurastra. It is its infection."
Elysia turned away, her jaw tight, fury boiling beneath the surface. She felt Chloe's hand brush her arm—a silent anchor—but it did little to quell the storm inside her.
Irina moved like smoke through the Grand Library's Secure Archive Wing, her footsteps silent on the polished marble. Behind the facade of ancient tomes and Aetherium-lit shelves, her CAT hummed, displaying twenty-seven flagged mentions of the leak across encrypted channels. Her mind raced, trying to piece together who could have done this, and why.
A synthesised whisper crackled in her ear, sharp and cutting—her SoviaTechna handler. "You failed."
Irina froze, her breath catching. The voice was a blade, slicing through her defences. "The leak originated from NovaMyst's underbelly," it continued. "A facility you were supposed to monitor. The rootkit was in circulation for weeks—you missed it."
"I didn't know it existed," she replied, her voice flat but cracking at the edges. "There were no signs—"
"Then you should've made signs."
The voice sharpened, cold as a guillotine. "You're not just under observation anymore. SoviaTechna is considering containment. Either recover the rootkit immediately or prepare to bury your brother in pieces."
Irina flinched, her heart lurching. "He doesn't know anything. He's not part of—"
"Loyalty is irrelevant. His DNA's been hardcoded to flag us once a single bit of it makes contact with any network. You think we'd allow that level of experimental autonomy without safeguards?"
Her blood turned to ice, the weight of it crushing her. Anton's code—his very essence—was woven into a leash SoviaTechna could pull at any moment.
"Retrieve the rootkit," the voice repeated. "And if Anton Melnic resists, neutralise him."
A pause, heavy with menace. "Silence is survival, Irina. You've already cost us too much."
The line went dead.
Irina stared into the flickering shadows of the archive shelves, her breaths shallow, uneven. One. Then another. She tapped her CAT, pulling up the latest decrypted sector Anton's team had leaked. His code signature was unmistakable—brazen, brilliant, suicidal. He was tearing down NovaMyst, SoviaTechna, everything, and dragging her into the abyss with him.
Her brother, the only one who'd ever seen her, who'd shielded her from the Melnic family's fractures and the world's cruelty. Now she had to choose: save him or serve the machine that owned her soul.
The meeting chamber inside the student council's room hummed with fraying wards and strained silence. Half of the council had arrived late. Others showed up with eyes red from sleepless nights. Chloe stood at the head of the conference circle, her arms crossed, her gaze distant. Across from her, Elysia tapped her fingers against the edge of the table, jaw tight.
Susana sat off-centre, eyes flickering between the faces around her. Evan stood a few paces behind her chair, his arms folded, his mood unreadable save for the faint shimmer of blue light clinging to his fingertips. The table's embedded Aetherium band pulsed erratically, flickering with interference from the academy's strained grid.
Then Irina walked in.
Whispers broke immediately. A third-year student councillor snorted under his breath. "Well, look who remembered she's on the council. Welcome back to the land of the living."
Chloe's voice sliced through the tension, cool and practised. "Enough. We don't know what's kept Irina away."
Elysia added, without turning, "We're not here to throw accusations. Not unless we're ready to take them too."
Irina gave a practised nod of gratitude and sat, her expression unreadable but her posture too still. Chloe noticed it—rigid, calculated restraint—and filed it away.
She exhaled and straightened. "For those still catching up, here's where we stand: a leak originating from within Eurastra's grid released classified data across the black-net—internal schematics, Syndicate and Purity Front connections, ATRA-aligned kill lists, even biometric markers linked to this school. The data has triggered riots in the Abyss District, paralysed the Joint Reconstruction Initiative, and forced ATRA to deploy high-alert sweeps across the continent. NovaMyst's credibility is bleeding out by the hour."
The room was silent.
Then, surprisingly, Susana spoke. "Why is this… our responsibility?" Her voice was quiet, uncertain. "We're students. Just students. We shouldn't be the ones… fixing this."
"Funny," the same councillor cut in, voice thick with disdain, "coming from someone like you. Shouldn't you be back in remedial?"
Evan's fingers twitched—the shimmer of AetherScripts flickering across his knuckles like lightning. But before the glyph could complete, Elysia raised her hand and dissolved the code midair, the gesture almost bored in its precision.
Irina turned, sharply. "That's enough," she said. "You want someone to blame? Blame me. I've been gone. Not Susana."
Chloe didn't miss the slight tremble behind Irina's voice—or how Susana's shoulders slumped in guarded gratitude.
She picked up the thread, calm and composed. "Susana's question is valid. But the answer is simple: we are NovaMyst. Whether we're students or not, this academy stands as Eurastra's first line of defence—military, political, magical. When it bleeds, the continent bleeds with it."
Evan broke the silence. "Do we even know who did this? Or why?"
There was a beat.
Irina froze.
Susana noticed the flicker—an involuntary flinch, almost too fast to catch.
Chloe looked straight ahead. "We don't know. Their motives are unknown, and so is their identity. But that's not what matters. What matters is stabilising this academy before the JRI collapses entirely."
A fourth-year enforcer leaned forward. "And what about Anton Melnic? Or Davis? No one's seen either of them since this whole thing started, and with Davis being expelled and all, I wouldn't put it past him either."
Irina sat straighter. "Anton wouldn't do this. He's reckless, not suicidal."
"Funny," the enforcer said. "This feels pretty suicidal to me."
Elysia cut in, eyes sharp. "Wait. Who said Davis was expelled?"
The enforcer shrugged. "No one needed to. He vanished. No duty reports, no clearance logs. Word spreads. People assume."
Elysia's voice cracked beneath the effort to remain calm. "Those assumptions are wrong. He was blamed for things he didn't do. Lies. All of it. The Families' silence let it fester, and now you're spitting it back like it's fact."
The vice president of the council leaned forward, her tone frost-edged. "With all due respect, of course you'd defend him. He is your knight, after all."
Elysia's jaw twitched. She didn't respond.
The enforcer spoke again, quieter now. "He left, Arundel. He walked out of NovaMyst and didn't look back. Can you blame people for questioning where he stands?"
Irina moved quickly. "We're losing focus."
"Are we?" The vice president's gaze shifted to Irina. "You show up now, after everything? A first-year handed power most people earn—and you vanish. Then reappear right when the world cracks open. Convenient timing, isn't it? Especially with your brother missing too."
Irina had no answer. Her silence said enough.
The room teetered, balance fraying.
Then Irina lifted her chin, voice low but edged with steel. "Convenient timing, you say? I could say the same about your hair, Vice President Eriksson. I first met you with rose-coloured hair, and now you've gone crimson. Funny how people change when the wind does. Especially when certain rules get broken."
Emma blinked. The room froze.
Irina continued, expression cool. "I'm here now. That's what matters."
Chloe's voice cut through before the room could boil over. "Enough." Her tone was final, laced with authority that reminded everyone why she was president. "No more insinuations. Not tonight. We need solutions."
To everyone's surprise, it was Susana who spoke first.
She glanced at Evan, and he gave her a single nod.
"I… we think we might have something," Susana said. "A way to turn this whole thing around."
Evan leaned forward. "We pin it on Davis."
Elysia jolted. "What?"
"Not like that," Susana rushed to explain. "We don't say he caused the damage. We say it was deliberate. A tactical whistleblower operation. That he leaked the data to expose the Syndicate's hidden faction—one that had infiltrated NovaMyst and Eurastra's core systems."
Chloe's eyes narrowed. "We spin it?"
Evan nodded. "Exactly. We link it to the original attack on the academy. Say it was all part of an internal strategy—to expose the corruption by letting it flare in the open. And Davis, as the Watcher of the Abyss District, took it upon himself to act."
Susana added, "We emphasise the riots as unfortunate but calculated—pressure meant to draw Syndicate actors out. ATRA can't complain if the Syndicate's losing power. And with him gone… he becomes a martyr."
Elysia stood, fists clenched. "You're using him…" she said, the words trembling on the edge of protest. But then her voice trailed off. Her gaze dropped—not in weakness, but in thought. She looked at Susana, then Evan, then back to Chloe.
She didn't sit. She didn't speak further.
Because she was considering it.
The silence cracked as Susana spoke again, more confidently this time. "This plan also gives us an opening. We frame it as controlled chaos—one that now requires intervention. We can send more people into the Abyss under the banner of aid and support. People want to help. They just need a narrative that makes it righteous."
Evan followed up, his tone smooth and analytical. "And this puts the higher-ups in a neutral role. Not saviours, not villains—just leaders doing what needs to be done. We paint the Abyss as a consequence of Purity Front interference, of Syndicate decay, of a world NovaMyst and the JRI are trying to fix. It's optics. And it works."
Elysia's hands slowly unclenched.
And she didn't say no.
Susana's voice softened. "It gives us a chance to get him back too. If we make him a symbol, a necessary sacrifice—then we can make a push into the Abyss. Humanitarian support. Relief teams. More eyes. Maybe even pull him out."
Evan leaned in. "And it forces the higher-ups to play nice. They can't call off the JRI anymore. Eurastra bleeds with NovaMyst? Then they have to cradle NovaMyst. Even if it means choking on the optics."
Chloe let the silence settle before she spoke, her voice low, deliberate. "It's not a bad plan."
She paced once behind her chair. "It turns a scandal into a reckoning. Resets the board. We stop being the cancer and become the cure. It would justify everything: intervention in the Abyss, expanded jurisdiction, JRI priority… even an internal investigation into ATRA and whatever silent factions are in play."
Her gaze sharpened. "But it's not without risk. We start pulling too hard on these threads, and half the bloody world will unravel."
There was a pause.
Then Irina spoke, quiet and flat. "Then we make sure the narrative is stronger than the truth."
Emma scoffed, but Chloe raised a hand to silence her.
Irina continued. "Once we put Nate on the board, everyone who hated him now has to praise him. It forces people to backtrack. Anyone too vocal against him? They'll have to clean up their own words. That means fewer enemies for him… and more for whoever tries to stand in the way."
A political checkmate.
Chloe sat, her hands steepled. "Then we do it."
The room, for the first time, was united.
For now.