Three days since the transmission.
Three days of wandering through ruins, dust-choked highways, and the carcasses of forgotten cities. Since hearing the broadcast from the A9 sector, Osiris had been unshakably quiet, each step calculated, each breath slow. He said nothing to Delythera, even as she skipped beside him, questioning everything.
"You're really doing this, huh?" she asked, twirling her finger lazily in the air, sparks of violet light trailing behind it like stardust. "Running off to the humans? That's your big master plan?"
Osiris said nothing. His boots crunched over the remains of a shattered lamppost. The wind howled through the broken windows of the surrounding buildings.
"You're really going back to where it's safe and boring and full of pointless rules?" Del pressed, floating upside down now, her hair swaying with gravity's confused tug. "Newsflash, genius, you can't grow with a leash around your neck."
Still, silence.
She floated down, finally getting in his face, lips puffed in irritation. "Hello? I'm talking to you."
He stopped walking. Looked up.
"Del, if you're not going to help, just follow. I don't need commentary every ten seconds."
She huffed, crossing her arms. "So we're ignoring logic now? Fantastic. I thought you were smarter than this."
"I need information. That city is the best shot I've got."
"Information?" she echoed, scoffing. "What, about your tragic past? Gonna write a memoir or something?"
He stared at her.
"I'm going there to find the man who left me," he said flatly. "Or my birth parents. Whichever comes first."
That made her quiet. For a sec.
"So you can finally get closure?" she asked carefully.
He shook his head. "No. So I know who to kill."
Del blinked. Her smirk vanished. "Oh. Right. That."
They traveled in silence for another two hours, the occasional screech of a far-off beast punctuating the silence. Then came the ambush—a pack of three-legged hounds with glimmering fangs and molten eyes. Osiris didn't flinch. He tested his ability again, sending pulses of condensed kinetic energy through the air, ripping them apart like wet paper.
He didn't just fight. He experimented. Compressed, twisted, released. Short bursts. Long charges. Diagonal strikes. He used the world as his lab, and monsters as his test dummies.
Delythera watched from above, perched lazily on a broken billboard like a bored goddess. "You're getting better," she murmured. "Almost scary."
He ignored her.
On the fourth day, they reached the outer Banks of A8 sector. And what they found made Osiris pause.
Humans. Dozens of them.
Some looked about his age—others slightly older. Their uniforms, once probably clean and organized, were now torn and stained. A symbol he couldn't recognize anymore was emblazoned on their arms—faded by blood and ash.
They huddled together like broken toys in a box, weapons clutched tight, eyes empty. A few carried crates. Some dragged injured friends. All of them looked like they'd seen hell.
Osiris stepped forward—
"Stop," Del's voice came, and it wasn't a request.
Suddenly, his legs wouldn't move.
"What the hell—" he grunted, glancing down. He wasn't being attacked. Just... held in place.
A suffocating pressure hung in the air like a warning.
"Del... let go."
She hovered to his side, calm, eyes sharp. "I know you're insane, but to what level? You're just going to waltz in there?"
He frowned. "Yes."
"You're not thinking straight. These aren't your friends. They're not going to hug you and hand you a welcome basket. Humans are just as dangerous as those monsters out there—maybe worse."
He rolled his eyes. "I'm aware."
"Then you're risking it?"
"Because the city has records. Government files. Birth archives. Surveillance. It's the only place that might have answers."
Del tilted her head. "You're going to risk getting captured for that?"
"I don't plan on being captured," he said flatly.
She floated in front of him, eyes narrowing. "Do you even remember why you're doing this? Do you even care about getting stronger anymore?"
He looked away. "It's not about closure. It's about revenge. If I don't find out who they are, I can't make them pay."
"You're not a Velmora, Osiris," she said gently.
He paused.
"The Velmora family is dead," he continued, picking up where she left off. "And I killed them. I was never one of them. Just a pawn. A tool."
Del said nothing.
"But the Velmoras were one of the nine founding families," he continued. "They governed the outer 6th sector and reported back to the royal core. If the inner city finds out they're all dead—and worse, that I'm the one who did it—"
"Your head'll be skewered on a pike, yeah, I get it," she muttered.
"Exactly. So I need camouflage. If I go in with a bunch of survivors, pretend to be just another refugee... there's a chance I can slip through."
"A fifty-fifty chance, tops," Del noted.
"It's enough."
He looked toward the group. The survivors hadn't noticed him yet. A girl was tending to a boy's wounded leg. Two others were arguing over rations.
Del slowly released the pressure around his legs. He took a step forward.
"You're insane," she said.
He smirked. "You already knew that."
She sighed. "Fine. Do your little spy thing. But don't expect me to save your ass if it blows up in your face."
"Wasn't planning to."
He walked toward the group. Shoulders relaxed. Expression tired. He put on the mask of just another survivor.
And just like that, he slipped into the crowd.
No one even blinked.
Del watched from above, floating like a shadow over him.
She didn't like this plan.
But she had to admit...
He was good at disappearing when he wanted to.
_____
Osiris blended into the group as if he'd always been there.
He kept his hood low, his eyes down, his presence muted. Nobody questioned him. The group was too exhausted, too distracted, too broken to care. Some limped. Some bled. Most were quiet, a hush of survivors clinging to whatever hope was left. Their eyes darted around nervously, and even in the silence, trauma echoed through the air like a low hum.
"This ain't right," one muttered behind him. "There should be more of us."
"I told you not everyone made it past the Screamwood," another replied, his voice tight with guilt and grief.
Osiris listened carefully. He wasn't here to make friends. He needed information. That was it. Blend in, stay low, collect data, get out. Delythera had gone quiet, which was unusual. He didn't trust it.
Nearby, a girl with a torn sleeve and blood-crusted hands whispered to a tall, skinny boy, "Did you hear? They're from Celestine Academy. Sector Seven. The elite university. Only the best of the best go there."
"You mean those guys?" The boy tilted his head.
Before she could answer, the forest ahead rustled. Silence fell across the group like a blanket. Even the wind seemed to still.
Out walked four figures.
They were ethereal.
Two boys. Two girls.
Each moved like the world bent for them. Their uniforms bore fewer scratches and tears, but still carried the smudges of survival. The girl in the middle walked with her chin high, long blonde hair cascading like a waterfall of sunlight, her golden eyes flicking around with practiced precision.
Gasps filled the crowd.
"It's her...!"
"Lady Elira!"
"The second daughter of the royal family!"
Some people actually knelt. Others murmured like they were witnessing a goddess.
"She saved us at the Gorge. She held back the beast alone for five whole minutes."
"She has divine mana, it's in her blood."
"She's got her mother's gifts, and her father's temper. Praise the bloodline!"
Osiris didn't kneel. He didn't gasp. He simply watched.
The blonde girl, Elira, looked annoyed more than anything, barely glancing at the praise being thrown her way. Her expression was stiff, as if praise was a burden she was used to carrying.
Next to her stood a girl with mint-green hair pulled into a tight braid. Her eyes were a gleaming turquoise, her posture rigid. Her uniform had badges on the collar—a mark of military pedigree.
"That's General Arven's daughter," someone whispered. "First division."
"You mean Commander Arven now," someone corrected. "He took over Sector Six last week."
Then came the guy with streaks of crimson in his black hair. Crimson eyes to match. There was something dangerous about him—not the type to roar, but the kind to smile before he slit your throat.
"He's a Calgrave," a hushed voice added. "The whole family are killers. Assassins, mercenaries, shadows. They were competitors with the Velmoras."
Osiris' lips twitched.
And last was the white-haired boy. Cold grey eyes. Silent. Unreadable. He didn't fidget. He didn't blink much. He looked at the crowd, not through it—as if he was taking mental notes on everyone.
No one seemed to know who he was.
"Who's he?"
"Dunno."
"He came out with them. Maybe another royal?"
"He gives me the creeps."
Osiris agreed. The boy felt... wrong. Not in the grotesque mutant way, but in the way static clings to your spine before lightning strikes.
A whisper floated by him like mist. "Interesting."
He didn't jump. He didn't flinch. But Delythera's voice tickled his ear like silk.
"Too close," he murmured without turning his head. "You'll draw attention."
She giggled, stepping beside him in that ephemeral way of hers. Her feet didn't quite touch the ground.
"They can't see me unless I want them to, remember? I'm like your hot guardian angel."
He didn't smile.
She leaned in slightly, eyes on Elira. "The blonde. She's gifted. Her mana control—wow. She might become a problem in the future."
Osiris followed her gaze. Elira was barking instructions to the group, telling them to form teams, assign patrols, conserve mana. Her voice had authority. It was clear she wasn't just a figurehead.
"Trained well," Del mused. "Too well for her age. Someone polished her. If you fought her right now, she might kill you. Not definitely. Just... maybe."
"Comforting," Osiris said dryly.
Her attention shifted. Fast.
She turned sharply to the white-haired boy. For the first time since emerging, her teasing tone dropped.
"...Him."
Osiris side-eyed her. "What?"
Her voice was soft. "He's like you."
"Meaning?"
"An anomaly. Not normal. Doesn't fit. Doesn't belong. Not quite human. Not quite anything else either."
Osiris looked again. The boy was standing too still. Eyes too clear. Like a blade before a kill.
"What is he?"
Delythera didn't answer.
When Osiris turned, she was already gone.
He exhaled through his nose and crossed his arms.
This was getting messy.
He was supposed to be under the radar. But now he was standing in a clearing with four powerhouses, one of which might be able to smell his bloodline out like a hound. And one who might already be the same kind of monster he was.
"Just keep quiet," he muttered. "Blend in. No sudden movements."
Elira stepped forward. "We're heading to Sector A9. I know many of you are tired. Scared. But we move at dawn. Stay in groups. No mana flares. If you can't fight, then keep your heads down."
Murmurs of agreement rippled through the crowd.
Osiris remained still.
But that boy with white hair turned. Just a little.
And for a fraction of a second, their eyes met.
Like mirrors.
Osiris' heart slowed.
And then the boy looked away, as if nothing had happened.
Osiris, however, wasn't so sure.
Something just shifted.
And he could feel it.