Location: Velmarch Heights — Underpass Industrial Zone — Vein Frame Workshop — Thirteenth Floor Corridor
The corridor had become a slaughterhouse of silence.
Eugene stood with his hands at his sides, his posture loose, almost bored. The pale blue lines on his aethernova suit pulsed in slow, rhythmic waves—like the breathing of a creature that had never known hunger. His eyes were fixed on Lucian, who had pushed himself off the wall and was now standing with his fists raised, his rings spinning weakly.
"You think," Eugene said, "that these playful toys of yours can hold me?"
He stepped forward.
The carpet beneath his shoes did not compress. The air around him shimmered—not with heat, with intention. The frequency that radiated from his suit pressed against Lucian's rings, made them stutter, made their amber-gold glow dim.
"Think again."
His voice was quiet. Almost kind.
"Veinframes are nothing more than copypasted imitations. Mimics of another power. The orrhion condensates that give them form—they're just fuel. A blacksmith's coal. A forger's clay."
He raised his hand.
The lines on his suit brightened.
"An aethernova suit, on the other hand, runs on orrhion condensates like a heart runs on blood. They are its life. Its sustenance. Its soul."
His fingers curled.
"Both may appear similar on the surface. But in quality and quantity—"
His fist clenched.
"—we both know which reigns supreme."
The pressure in the corridor tripled.
Lucian's rings wobbled. Their amber-gold glow flickered, dimmed, flickered again. The residue around his arms peeled away like smoke in a windstorm.
"You talk too much," Lucian said.
His voice was flat.
"Real coward behavior, running your mouth like that."
Eugene's smile didn't waver.
"Coward," he repeated. "I'll remember that."
---
He moved.
Not fast. Not slow. Just... first.
His palm struck Lucian's chest—not a punch, a press. The impact sent a shockwave through the corridor. Lucian's feet left the ground. His back slammed into the wall behind him. The wood paneling cracked. Dust fell from the ceiling.
Twelve units, the air seemed to hum. Aetherflux conflux of a single strike. Enough to bruise bone. Enough to steal breath.
Lucian pushed off the wall.
His rings shot forward—four of them, spinning, trailing crimson light. They aimed for Eugene's throat, his chest, his temples.
Eugene didn't move.
His hand swept across his body—a casual gesture, almost bored. The rings struck the frequency field around him and stopped. Hovering. Trapped.
Fifteen units, the frequency whispered. Absorbed. Redirected.
Lucian's second wave came from the left.
Three rings, lower, aimed at Eugene's knees.
Eugene's foot moved—not a step, a slide. The rings passed through the space where his leg had been. He turned. His other hand came up. His palm faced Lucian.
"You're trying," he said. "I'll give you that."
He pushed.
The pressure wave struck Lucian's chest again—harder this time. His ribs creaked. His breath left him. He flew backward, crashed into the wall, and slid to the floor.
Twenty-eight units, the suit hummed. The frequency was drinking the ambient despair.
---
Tyla's plates shot forward.
Four of them, spinning in a helix, their energy trails interlocking. The echo wave that followed was not wide—it was focused. A blade of pale blue frequency aimed at Eugene's back.
He didn't turn.
The frequency field around him pulsed—once, twice—and the plates stopped. They hovered in the air, trembling, their glow flickering.
"You're persistent," Eugene said.
He looked over his shoulder.
His eyes found Tyla's mask.
"I like that."
His hand moved.
The plates reversed direction—not flying back to Tyla, away from her. They shot down the corridor, past the broken window, into the night.
Tyla's hands dropped.
Her suit hummed—confused, searching for the lost plates.
"What did you—"
"I suppressed them," Eugene said. "Your toys. Your echoes. Your little imitation of power."
He turned to face her.
"Now. Where were we?"
---
Lucian pushed himself to his feet.
His chest ached. His ribs creaked. The rings on his arms were dim—not dark, just... tired. He raised his fists.
"Stay down," Eugene said. "You're embarrassing yourself."
"Not a chance."
Lucian charged.
His body moved in a way that was not Sutran—not the old way, not the new. Something in between. Desperate. His fist aimed for Eugene's jaw. His knee aimed for his stomach. His rings spun, trailing weak light.
Eugene blocked.
His forearm met Lucian's fist. His knee met Lucian's knee. The impact sent shockwaves through the corridor—but Eugene didn't step back.
He didn't flinch.
He caught Lucian's wrist.
"You're from the Kaelos branch," Eugene said. "Disorder. Chaos. I can feel it in your strikes. The unpredictability. The lack of pattern."
He squeezed.
Lucian's fingers went numb.
"But chaos without power is just noise."
He threw Lucian.
Not far—just enough. Lucian's body spun through the air, hit the wall, and crumpled.
Thirty-four units, the suit hummed. The corridor was drenched in pain.
---
Tyla tried to summon her plates.
They didn't come.
She tried again.
A faint hum. A flicker of light. Then nothing.
"Your aethernova suit is still learning," Eugene said. "It hasn't bonded with you yet. Not fully. You can't call the plates if I suppress the frequency."
He walked toward her.
"That's the difference between us. I've bonded with mine. We're one. You're still... dating."
Tyla's jaw tightened.
"You're disgusting."
"I've been told."
He reached for her.
---
The arrow struck the frequency field.
Not hard. Not fast. Just... present.
Eugene's head turned.
The arrow was not normal. Its shaft was thin, almost invisible, but its tip glowed—a soft, amber light that pulsed in rhythm with a heartbeat that wasn't there. The arrowhead was compact, folded, no larger than a thumbnail.
"What is—"
The tip burst.
Not an explosion—a cloud. Pale green gas erupted from the arrowhead, spreading in a dome around Eugene's head. He inhaled before he could stop himself.
His eyes widened.
His hands went to his throat.
"Gas?"
His voice was choked.
"You... used... gas?"
His knees buckled.
The frequency field around him flickered—dim, bright, dim—then died. The lines on his suit went dark. His body swayed. His eyes rolled back.
He fell.
The corridor was silent.
---
Gerry stood at the broken window.
His bow was still raised. His hand was still extended. A small pouch hung from his belt—open, empty, its contents spent. The arrow he had fired was not like the others. It had been folded, compressed, stored in the pouch for emergencies. When he had seen Lucian's rings falter and Tyla's plates fall, he had reached for it.
Expandable tech, he thought. The same principle as those phones that turn into tablets. Fold it small, carry it anywhere. In a life-and-death situation, you unfold it and pray.
This was a life-and-death situation.
"Backup," he said.
His voice was quiet.
"For moments like this."
He lowered the bow.
"You're welcome."
Lucian pushed himself off the wall.
His chest still ached. His ribs still creaked. But he was standing.
"How long?" he asked.
"Maybe ten minutes. Maybe less. Depends on how strong his metabolism is."
"Then we need to move."
---
Sirens.
Red and blue lights flickered through the broken window, casting the corridor in pulses of color. Tires screeched. Doors slammed.
Gerry looked out.
Four patrol cars had surrounded the entrance. Officers in dark uniforms crouched behind their doors, pistols drawn, their eyes fixed on the shattered opening of the workshop.
"Great," Gerry muttered.
His internal thoughts churned.
I'm going to kill Elijah. Slowly. Painfully. With a blunt object.
This is all his fault.
His idea. His plan. His mess.
And now I'm standing in a broken building with a bow in my hand and a wanted fugitive over my shoulder while cops point guns at me.
Wonderful.
"Hands up!" an officer shouted. "Now!"
Gerry raised his hands.
The bow dangled from his fingers.
"I'm just a civilian," he called. "I was passing by. I saw the crash. I was trying to help—"
"Hands up! Don't move!"
"They're already up!"
Tyla's plates returned.
They shot through the broken window—not at the cops, above them. The echo wave that followed was not a shockwave. It was a pulse. A ring of pale blue frequency that expanded outward, passing through the officers, their cars, their weapons.
They didn't feel pain.
They felt disorientation.
Their hands dropped. Their eyes unfocused. Their knees buckled. One by one, they slumped against their cars, unconscious.
"That won't hold them long," Tyla said.
She raised her hands.
The plates circled her, Lucian, and Gerry—forming a helix of pale blue light. The energy between them thickened, flattened, became a platform.
"Hold on."
The platform lifted.
Not fast. Not slow. Just... steady. It carried them through the broken window, over the unconscious officers, over the patrol cars, over the dark asphalt of the underpass.
They landed on the other side of the street.
Lucian lowered Wilfred from his shoulder. The man was still unconscious, his breathing shallow, his mouth open.
Tyla looked at Lucian.
His jacket was torn. His lip was bleeding. His rings were dim.
"Why didn't you use your full strength?" she asked.
Lucian's expression shifted.
His eyes met hers. For a moment, he looked like he was about to say something clever. Then he shrugged.
"I was saving it," he said.
His voice was flat. The delivery was so deadpan that Gerry wasn't sure if it was a joke or not.
"Saving it," Tyla repeated.
"For later."
Gerry shook his head.
"Guys, come on. More cops are on the way. We need to get out of here before they arrive."
Lucian nodded.
He hoisted Wilfred onto his shoulder.
"Let's go."
They walked into the darkness.
The sirens faded behind them.
---
Eugene woke.
His eyes opened. The ceiling was cracked. The fluorescent lights were buzzing. The corridor was empty.
He pushed himself up.
His hand went to his throat. The gas had dissipated. His lungs were clear. His suit hummed—confused, then angry, then hungry.
"Those punks," he said.
His voice was quiet.
"Whoever they are, they obviously don't know the immensity of heaven and earth."
He stood.
"Someone from the Kaelos branch was among them. That's... interesting."
He cracked his neck.
"The only clowns I know from that branch are our clients. The ones who pay for our services."
His eyes narrowed.
His hands moved—sweeping gestures, almost theatrical.
"It seems their positions have clouded their judgment. They've forgotten who they answer to."
He walked to the elevator.
The doors opened. He stepped inside. The doors closed.
---
The lobby was chaos.
Security personnel milled about—some tending to wounds, some checking the wreckage, some just standing, staring at the hole where the armored truck had breached the wall.
One of them saw Eugene.
His face went pale. His hands trembled. He approached, his head bowed, his voice a whisper.
"Sir—I—we tried to stop them—but they were too fast—too strong—we couldn't—"
Eugene's hand moved.
Not fast. Not slow. Just... final.
His palm pressed against the man's chest. The lines on his suit flared—pale blue, bright, hungry—and his fingers pushed.
Through fabric. Through skin. Through ribs.
The security's eyes widened. His mouth opened. No sound came out.
Eugene pulled his hand back.
The man crumpled.
"If there's one thing I've learned from the Mysterium clan," Eugene said, "it's that anything around you that brings weakness can lead to your ruin."
He looked at the other security.
Their faces were pale. Their hands were raised. Their bodies were pressed against the walls, as far from him as they could get.
"Clean this up," he said.
He walked toward the exit.
The lines on his suit pulsed.
And the lobby was silent except for the dripping of blood.
---