Lina didn't just lunge—she exploded forward.
In one breath she was motionless, a heartbeat of deceptive calm; in the next, pure momentum tore through the silence like a blade through cloth.
The crowd gasped, but it was already too late.
Her blade was already in motion, slicing through the air with a high, serrated whine that set teeth on edge. The weapon was slim and alloy-black, its edge flickering faintly with threads of gold filament. It wasn't made for her hand, but it fit perfectly anyway—an instrument crafted for Seraphs, something she'd taken, not been given.
And Arlen—seasoned, composed, unshakable Arlen—finally moved.
Not out of choice, but instinct.
Steel rasped free from his sheath, barely catching her strike in time. Their blades collided with the sharp crack of a snapped powerline, merging light, sound, and raw force into one vivid instant.
The ring froze. The voices fell away into nothing. Even the spectators up along the rails seemed to hold their breath.
Lina pressed forward, bearing down without hesitation—no bluff, no display of skill, just pure, lethal intent.
Arlen's boots scraped back an inch in the sand. Just one inch—but that was enough. Everyone watching knew immediately: she wasn't testing him; she was fully prepared to finish this right now.
And then—
Impact.
A blur dropped between them, precise and almost soundless as boots touched the sand. Blue jacket, no insignia, one hand calmly raised. His other closed around Lina's wrist, firm and unyielding.
"That's enough," he said.
It wasn't loud, or harsh—just a finality that no one dared challenge.
The shockblade flickered once in protest, gold lines crackling briefly along its edge, as if it had a will of its own and resented the interruption.
But Lina didn't move.
Not from fear.
Because, for the first time since waking up, someone had actually beaten her to the strike.
She looked at him then—really looked.
He was young, probably not much older than she was, but he moved with the understated precision of a blade drawn smoothly from its sheath. Each motion efficient, quiet, purposeful.
He wore a blue jacket, standard weave, without insignia or rank. His hair was close-cropped, lightly touched with gray at the temples, though it didn't age him. His face was unreadable, carrying the kind of practiced neutrality that spoke of orders learned long before emotions.
His hand still circled her wrist, steady and firm—but not forceful. A calm restraint, impossible to ignore.
Then the crowd reacted.
Not in cheers, nor shouts—but in a silent ripple of unease.
They stepped backward, some slowly, others quickly. A few reacted too late to hide the flash of recognition in their eyes—recognition not of her, but of the weapon in her grip. They all knew what it meant, what it had done, and whom it belonged to. And it certainly wasn't meant to answer to someone like her.
That was the part that frightened them most.
Above, along the rails, Elya was the first to move—shoulders squared, tablet still dim in one hand.
She didn't speak. Didn't have to.
Rei stood beside her now, lips parted like he'd meant to say something but hadn't found the words in time.
His usual smirk was gone. So was the certainty in his eyes.
Footsteps broke the stillness.
Not hurried, but deliberate and heavy. Immediately, the crowd parted.
Senn.
He entered the ring without a word, his coat dusted with grit from the outer wall, his gaze sweeping across the pit. Behind him, three squads followed in tight formation—armored, visored, silent. Not standard security. His own hand-picked unit.
A small device on his wrist pulsed once—silent, subtle. He glanced at it, and the faintest crease touched his brow.
Class-IV confirmed. Live signal. Origin traced.
He didn't raise his voice or show any visible anger. He didn't have to.
"Disperse," he said quietly. "Now."
No one argued.
Operators backed away. Recruits faded into the shadows. Even the techs hovering near the upper rails withdrew—not simply because they'd been dismissed, but because they knew they'd witnessed something beyond their clearance, something dangerous.
Senn reached the vault rail and came to a stop.
His eyes flicked once toward Arlen, still frozen mid-breath, his weapon only partially lowered. No words passed between them.
Their eyes met. A long second passed. Arlen withdrew reluctantly.
Then Senn turned toward Lina.
He stopped.
His eyes settled first on her face, then on the sword still burning faintly gold in her grip—on the fact that it hadn't resisted her, hadn't fought her even once.
When he spoke, his voice was too quiet for the crowd, meant only for her.
"You need to let it go."
It wasn't a command, wasn't even a warning. It was a statement, a line in the sand drawn softly between them.
Lina said nothing. After a second—or maybe two—she opened her hand. The blade hissed softly, its filaments dimming, the glow fading away like a held breath finally released.
The young man in blue stepped forward, took the blade, and secured it inside a containment unit that sealed with a quiet magnetic click.
Senn exhaled too—not from relief, but as if recalculating variables he'd never anticipated confronting.
Then he looked past her, toward the young man in blue standing silently at her side, and gave a subtle nod. Directive given, directive acknowledged.
Turning back to the yard, Senn's voice hardened.
"Get me Korr," he said sharply. "Pull standby units, scramble fallback grids. Set vault status to black."
His expression darkened further.
"We're no longer hidden," he said. "Someone out there knows we're here."
The room hadn't changed.
Same stripped-down edges. Same map wall pulsing under dim light. Same hollow quiet that made every shift of breath sound too loud.
But this time, she wasn't alone.
Senn's gaze shifted between them.
"You haven't been formally introduced."
He nodded toward the young man by the wall.
"Captain Kael Verrin. Recon and enforcement. He leads Black Unit Twelve—unofficial designation. Don't look for a file. You won't find one."
Kael stood near the wall console—hands behind his back, gaze fixed on the updated feed as if he were watching it for movement only he could see. The blue of his jacket caught the wall's glow in fragmented pulses. He hadn't spoken since she entered.
He didn't turn from the screen, only gave a slight tilt of his head in acknowledgment.
His expression didn't change. It rarely did.
Then Senn's attention moved to the man seated at the far end of the room.
"And that's Captain Iven Korr. Logistics, extraction, fallback response. If things go wrong—and they will—he's the one who gets you out."
Korr sat opposite the door, one leg crossed over the other, scarred fingers tapping idly against a battered datapad. Older, broader. There was something in his posture that suggested he'd buried more soldiers than he'd trained.
"Let's just hope I don't have to," he muttered.
Rei leaned against the side railing with arms folded—half-present, half-skeptical, the way he always was when the room got too quiet. Elya stood near him, posture still, hands loose at her sides. Her eyes were focused, but unreadable.
Lina stayed near the wall. Not quite part of the circle. Not excluded either.
Senn was last to speak, as always.
He tapped the control node. The map wall flickered—Sector 5 enlarged, then the whole western grid. Dozens of signal sweeps blinked to life.
"We caught the pulse at 17:27. Class-IV combat signature. Clean. Directional. Source-locked to central vault."
His tone was clinical. Precise.
"It broadcasted for 4.2 seconds before it stopped. That's long enough for a recon satellite or buried relay to triangulate."
"Assume we've been marked."
Korr exhaled through his nose. Not surprised. Just irritated.
Kael didn't react.
Rei did. "Hell of a way to say hello to everyone."
No one laughed.
Senn let the words hang before speaking again.
"We'll be relocating the base perimeter within forty-eight hours. Vaults are going black. Forward comms rerouting through tertiary relays in Sector Six. Meanwhile—"
His gaze flicked to Lina.
"We move you out."
She straightened. "Where?"
"Sector Four," Kael said, voice flat. "A contact there's been prepping interface kits. Off-market. We think they've managed a partial bypass for Aurelion-linked signal arms."
Lina's brow knit. "You were going to send someone?"
Kael nodded once. "Was supposed to be next month. Now it's today."
A pause.
Then Senn again.
"You won't go alone," he said firmly. "Captain Kael will lead the escort. Rei and Eyla will move with you directly. We'll deploy a perimeter team alongside—light and mobile, covering four sectors. There's a deep breach between Seven and Four; be aware of it."
He paused briefly, eyes scanning the room. "Korr will run support, following behind your formation at a staggered distance. He'll shadow your route, ready for extraction or reinforcement if needed."
His voice hardened slightly, signaling the finality of the plan.
"We move at daybreak."
Lina hesitated. Merely for a second.
"Then I have one request."
Senn's eyes narrowed. "Go on."
She looked at the map.
Sector Nine still pulsed—dim, faint red, but alive.
"We route through Nine first."
Rei blinked. "You serious?"
Korr looked at her for the first time.
Elya didn't interrupt. But something in her jaw shifted—barely a reaction, but not nothing.
Senn didn't answer immediately. He tapped the console again—Sector Nine's grid opened, damage zones highlighted in warning amber.
"That area's cold. No comms. No trace of Kai since the blackouts."
Lina didn't flinch.
"I need to see it anyway."
Not a request. But something stubborn, worn-in.
A line she wasn't willing to leave behind.
Senn exhaled. Quietly.
"We'll adjust the route. Through Seven, into Nine. Then cut across to Four."
A stillness followed. Not full silence—just that tight, thin pause that meant everyone was recalculating.
Kael's expression didn't shift.
But his eyes did.
Just a slight flick toward the map.
No comment. No visible resistance.
He was already adjusting the route in his head.
Rei let out a soft breath, somewhere between a scoff and a laugh.
"Sure. Just a casual stroll through the massacre zone. Nice of you to keep it scenic."
Elya shot him a glance—sharp, brief.
She didn't say anything.
But one hand slid to her terminal, fingers already pulling up topographic overlays along the Nine-Four corridor.
Korr leaned back in his seat, frowning.
"You're seriously rerouting us through that mess?"
"I've got two squads barely rotated out of Ridge South. We just stabilized the upper path in Sector Seven."
He gestured toward the grid with a flick of his stylus—straight through a scarred wedge of Sector Seven, red-lined with collapsed nodes and unknown hostiles.
"That stretch hasn't held clean for more than a cycle. We go near it, we get tails. Or worse—ghost fire."
His tone wasn't angry.
It was tired. Frustrated. Professional.
Senn didn't raise his voice.
"We're not asking you to like it, Captain."
"We're asking you to hold the line."
Korr fell silent.
But his grip tightened once around the stylus before setting it down with deliberate care.
Senn looked around the room one last time.
"That's it. Briefing ends. We move at first light."
The room began to empty.
Kael left first—efficient, wordless.
Korr followed, muttering something low to Rei.
Elya lingered, but said nothing. Her eyes met Lina's—steady, unreadable—then turned away.
Senn was last. He paused by the doorframe.
"Get some rest," he said quietly. "You'll need it."
Then he was gone.
Lina stayed still long after they'd gone, silence settling around her like dust after a storm.
Only when the door sealed shut, and the air felt empty enough, did she reach slowly into her jacket.
The chain was cold against her fingertips; the charm felt lighter than memory, as if time itself had worn it hollow.
She let it spill softly into her palm, glinting once beneath the pale glow from the map wall.
A photo. The corners creased, edges smoothed by countless touches—paper made fragile from being held too often, too tight.
Two figures frozen in time.
A girl, maybe six, smiling wide, slightly uneven, caught mid-laugh.
A man next to her—around thirty, arm slung protectively, effortlessly over her shoulder. He wore a crooked grin, playful and familiar. Unmistakable.
She turned it carefully, tracing the faded scrawl inked lightly across the back:
"Try not to break anything."
"–K"
Her lips curved faintly—barely a smile, something fragile and half-forgotten.
Then her fingers closed tight around the chain.
And didn't let go.