07 : 00 A.M. — Pacific Ice-Shelf, 250 mi off the Chilean coast
Golden dawn bled over a battlefield made of shattered miracles. What had once been a continent of frost was already sloughing back into seawater, its jagged edges steaming beneath newborn sunlight. Here and there, wing-sized plates of ice still drifted, each one scarred by plasma burns or sword-strokes or the footprint of Frostjaw Reiken's final convulsion.
On the largest of those slabs hovered four figures—exhausted, armor in tatters, yet indelibly alive. Archer Irving's Godrend Aegis hummed a low diagnostic tone and powered down to standby; Karu Arakizawa's Titan-0 Apex exhaled a last gust of coolant before collapsing to one knee; Rylen Minazuka steadied himself against Lucien so the Soulweaver exosuit wouldn't topple face-first; and Lucien—bare-armed, seal still faintly glowing—kept them all upright by will alone.
A distant roar cut the silence, growing into a thunderous whine. Four tilt-rotor trauma transports—Chile's newest joint-rescue craft, piloted by a scrambling coalition of South-American and Japanese med-teams—knifed through sunrise glare, rotor-wash shredding the remaining mist. Searchlights swept the ice, catching on slumped silhouettes farther out: Kagetsu half-buried beneath a frozen spar, Jason lying stiff-armed beside a crater, Emiluna cradling Cho while Kisuke flagged the air with one shaky arm.
Archer flicked his visor's external mic on. "Priority triage: Kagetsu's losing oxygen. Jason's arms are unresponsive. Don't waste medics on me—I can walk." Then he added, almost gently, "Lucien's unstable. Your stretcher, Commander."
Lucien shook his head, bloodied hair whipping in rotor-wash. "They need it more." He started to wobble—the seal on his forearm still fizzed with embers—but Karu caught his elbow. "Humor the heroism later. Lie down." Lucien grudgingly did.
Airlift
Inside Trauma-Bird Caleuche-01, the hold smelled of disinfectant and frost-burn.Vital charts flickered over nine Nightguard bioscans:
Operative Injuries Initial Prognosis
Lucien: Rib cartilage tears; systemic energy depletion (unknown origin)Stable after IV fluid & nanosutures
Rylen: Fractured jaw, tibia; residual spectral backlashSurgery scheduled, good outlook
Karu: 4 cracked ribs; microlacerations near reactor scar. Pain-management & rest. rebah 2 weeks.
Kagetsu: Severe concussion, orbital fracture, collapsed lung, busted knee. Critical but responsive. Rehab 8 weeks
Lisa: Concussion, eleven stitches to scalp.Observational.
Kisuke: L3–L4 vertebral fracture (non-paralyzing)Brace, 6-week rehab.
Jason: Bilateral ulnar & radial breaks; right shoulder dislocation. Plates & pins, full recovery is 6 weeks
Emiluna: Clean distal radius breakCast—2 weeks.
Cho: Two broken fingers, torn groin ligament Physical therapy.
Ayumu: 3 broken toes, ribs shattered and 1 lung collapsed. 3 weeks rehab.
Archer: Nothing.
Archer remained on deck only long enough to confirm everyone buckled in. The moment the pilot announced **San Felipe Regional Medical Complex ** as destination, Irving keyed a secure channel to U.S. Air-Force orbital and, without fanfare, ordered a hypersonic shuttle for immediate pickup. The Godrend Aegis sealed around him, and—contrary to protest from Chilean command—he walked off the ramp mid-flight, free-falling until blue contrails etched behind him and he was gone, arrowing northeast across a thawing ocean.
Rylen watched the vanishing streak and muttered through a jaw brace, "That man flies off like a chapter-break." Lucien tried to laugh; it came out as a cough and a dim flash of hell-fire that singed a paper gown. Med-techs hurried over; monitors shrieked; everyone decided humor could wait.
Two Days Later — San Felipe Regional, Level-6 Critical-Care
Machines hummed like distant bees. Sunlight striped across polished concrete, warmed by desert morning. Lucien's eyelids fluttered. 08 : 42 A.M. He woke inside a sterile cocoon of nanofiber bandage and vit-gel monitors.
"Vitals rising," an orderly noted. A nurse smiled: "Good morning, Lucien-kun. Welcome back." Lucien flexed fingers—painless. His ribs? Whole. The seal? Dormant. His body, medically impossible, was fully healed.
Moments later Karu hobbled in, ribs taped, reactor-brace glowing dull orange. "About time, sleeping beauty." He perched on a stool and displayed a hologram: a worldwide heat-map showing the Pacific thaw at 92 %. "Thought you'd want the weather report."
Lucien grinned—until voices erupted in the hallway. Heavy boots, diplomatic bark. The door swept open; Japanese Special-Forces escorts flooded the room—three in matte grey exosuits emblazoned with the Imperial Chrysanthemum. Their captain bowed stiffly. "Lucien. Stand. Under Imperial authority you will come with us."
Karu surged upright. "Hospital release hasn't cleared—""Orders from Tokyo," the captain cut in. "Prime-Minister Fujiwara demands a direct audience."
Lucien steadied himself. "I'm ambulant. Just don't cuff me.""No restraints," the captain confirmed, yet two guards flanked him like columns as they left. Karu tried to follow but a medic blocked him; Rylen's muffled shout echoed from down the ward. Lucien lifted a hand—I'll be fine.
Prime-Ministerial Compound, Tokyo Green-Zone (Secure Annex)
The motorcade sliced through military checkpoints to a walled estate commandeered as provisional embassy. Inside a cedar-paneled chamber, Fukita Fujiwara waited: early-fifties, spotless dark suit, swept-back black hair, rim-glasses reflecting coded data-streams. He dismissed guards, gesturing Lucien to a tatami platform set with tea. Cameras disabled, drones barred—just two men and clinking porcelain.
Fujiwara poured. "Cha-no-yu in foreign land—a luxury. You saved millions. For that, Japan thanks you."
Lucien sat cross-legged, silently scanning the Prime-Minister's surface thoughts through residual mind-sense. Admiration… relief… calculation. Underneath, a second layer: Leverage him. A divine deterrent. Lucien's stomach clenched.
Fujiwara continued: "The international warrant naming you Demon Vessel is hereby rescinded. Effective now. Our Diet will ratify formal pardon once we return to Tokyo." He slid over a holoslate: nullification orders, signed and sealed.
Lucien exhaled. "I appreciate that." He sipped tea—floral, sweet. "But why trust me?"
"Trust is expensive," Fujiwara replied. "I invest in potential. You are a nuclear arsenal wrapped in flesh. Nations respect power. If that power publicly flies Japan's banner, certain… rival states will hesitate before provoking conflict."
There it was—the subtext made text. Lucien masked a frown. "So I'm to be… what? A walking war-flag?"
"A protector," Fujiwara corrected smoothly. "We offer you rank, resources, research into your condition. In return—alignment. Appearances alongside Nightguard Division One. Joint drills. No covert shackles, only cooperation."
Weapon, Lucien's inner reading hissed; they need a storm to brandish. But he also felt genuine gratitude from the man, a buried shard of respect.
Lucien set the cup down. "I'll fight for people, not for politics. If interests align, fine. If they diverge—" His eyes darkened ever so slightly. "I walk my own path."
Fujiwara considered, then nodded. "We can negotiate particulars later. For now, your freedom stands." He extended a hand. Lucien clasped it, feeling the pulse of a thousand reporters just outside the perimeter shouting for a glimpse.
"Take the helicopter back to Command Post Five," the PM added. "Your team will want news. And rest—though the world isn't likely to grant much."
Lucien bowed lightly, offered careful thanks, and allowed escort to guide him out. As he passed a mirrored wall he caught his reflection: hospital scrubs, bare feet, a blackened seal dormant on his forearm. Free, he thought. And more bound than ever.
Fifth Nightguard Command Post — 20 : 12 P.M. (Same day)
The coastal facility's mess-hall smelled of soy broth and grilled mackerel when Lucien stepped in. Emiluna—left wrist still splinted—brightened instantly, waving him toward a corner table where congee, miso, and a mountain of karaage waited. Rylen, jaw wired, handled translations of his mumbled commentary.
The instant Lucien appeared, conversation detonated—cheers, sarcastic whistles, tears Emiluna pretended were onions. He listened, laughed softly, deflected questions about the PM, and ate enough fried chicken to fuel a small army.
But during dessert—steamed buns and leftover matcha cake—his vision swam. Weariness pulled at him like undertow. He excused himself to quarters, promising Emiluna he'd attend morning briefing. She squeezed his hand, whispering, "Dream of oceans that don't freeze." He tried to smile.
The moon cast its silver glow over the Fifth Division Command Post, reflecting on its glass-paneled windows and the rows of cherry blossom trees that lined its perimeter. Inside, Lucien sat in his room, the smell of grilled salmon and miso soup still lingering from the dinner Emiluna had surprised him with. They had laughed—about nothing and everything. She had even managed to get him to smile, a real one, not the one he wore to hide the burden he carried.
Jason was still in rehab, and the others—Kagetsu, Kisuke, Cho—were healing steadily in there Divisions command posts. For the first time in what felt like centuries, there was peace.
Lucien lay down on the firm mattress, exhaustion creeping into his bones despite his full recovery. His body, fully restored by his Regeneration, still carried phantom weight. The memories of Frostjaw's demise, of Archer disappearing without a word, of the Prime Minister's veiled smile—they clung to him like shadows. He closed his eyes.
And the world ended.
Again.
—
The shift was instant.
One moment he was on his bed, breathing calmly under a blanket of serenity, the next he was standing in a plane of absolute chaos.
Fire raged in every direction. The sky—if it could be called that—was a river of lava, and the ground cracked under his feet like dried bone. There was no wind, no scent, no sound except the low hum of endless screaming far beyond the horizon.
Lucien clenched his fists. "The Creator again?" he muttered.
But this place... was wrong. The warmth here wasn't divine—it was hateful. The flames weren't alive; they were furious. And the pressure. It didn't squeeze—it crushed.
Then it appeared.
From the inferno, a figure emerged, colossal and terrifying. Twice as tall as a man, with skin like charred obsidian, its body was a mass of muscle and scarring. Black horns curved from its skull, jagged and uneven. Its eyes weren't red—they were voids, consuming all light. Its presence alone seemed to suffocate the very air.
Lucien took an instinctive step back.
The thing smiled. When it spoke, the flames recoiled.
"So... this is the boy who brushed shoulders with gods."
Its voice was a growl mixed with an earthquake, scraping across Lucien's skull like claws.
Lucien tried to speak. Nothing came out. His throat refused to obey. His body froze under the crushing will of this creature.
"The power you used against Reiken… that wasn't divine," the creature said. "Not from the Creator. Not from your precious Vengeance God. No, Lucien. That surge… that Infernal Surge... it was mine."
Lucien's thoughts spun. What the hell is this thing?
"The one who whispered to you in the black fog, the one who gave you a taste—just a fraction—of true might… That was my envoy. My shadow. Not a god. A devil."
Lucien's chest tightened. The figure in black. The moment his heart had nearly stopped. The surge of hate-fueled power. He hadn't questioned it then. But now…
"You've used a billionth of my power. And you shattered the battlefield."
Lucien swallowed hard, trying to breathe, trying to move. I didn't ask for this...
"You didn't have to," the creature said, stepping closer. Its mere presence caused the ground to crack and spit molten ash. "You were chosen. Not by fate, not by heaven—but by Hell. And I... am the King."
"King of Hell."
A pause.
Then, the creature raised one smoldering hand. A flick of its finger, and the chains around Lucien's voice were gone.
He gasped, stumbling back. "Why me?" he croaked. "I never wanted this. I already carry vengeance. I already have a god—"
"Do you?" the King of Hell cut him off. "And where was your god when you screamed under scalpel and steel for 32 days? Where was he when your friends were shattered? When the world branded you a monster?"
Lucien didn't answer. Because the truth stung.
"You are more than mortal now. More than divine. You are rage incarnate. You are wrath with a pulse. And I offer you dominion. Become mine. Take my fire. Claim your title."
"Become the new King of Hell."
The sky behind the creature exploded in thunder. Rivers of flame twisted into symbols—sigils of ancient power.
Lucien gritted his teeth. "And if I say no?"
"Then you remain a pawn," the King said flatly. "A pet of the heavens, leashed and collared. The gods will clap when you bleed for them. And they'll replace you when you fall."
Lucien looked up at the beast, heart pounding. "You want me to kill for you?"
"I want you to be free."
"Free to destroy."
"Free to avenge."
"Free to rule."
The air vibrated with finality. Then the fire around them began to die, collapsing inward into nothingness.
"Your taste of my power was merely a whisper," the King said, his voice now distant. "Imagine what you could do with your real voice."
Lucien clenched his fists as the world around him shattered like glass.
"Remember, boy," the King's voice echoed, "I don't need an answer now. But the longer you wait, the more your gods will use you. And the more you'll bleed for them."
"The throne of Hell has a name carved into it. And it starts with L."
—
Lucien woke up with a gasp, drenched in sweat.
His heart hammered in his chest like a war drum. His bedsheets were scorched. Smoke curled from his fingertips. The room's lights flickered.
His breathing slowed. But the tremble in his hands didn't stop.
He sat up, staring at the faint glow in his palms—residual embers from a fire that didn't belong to this world.
It hadn't been a dream.
And now, there was a new voice inside him.
Not the Creator's. Not the God of Vengeance's.
But something darker. Hungrier.
Lucien stood up, walked to the mirror, and looked into his own eyes.
For the first time, he didn't recognize himself.
Not entirely.