Vescrutia: Legacy

The island they reached was unlike any they had known.
The sand was gone — buried beneath a black, unyielding crust. The air vibrated with a constant hum, a deep mechanical pulse that made even silence feel artificial. Everywhere they turned, the ground hissed, the walls muttered, and strange boxes on wheels roared like caged beasts set loose between narrow stone rivers.

Tempest squinted through the haze, her expression tight. “Is this… a village?” she asked, though the word felt too small for what surrounded them.

Azazel didn’t answer. His eyes were fixed on the skyline — towers of glass and metal that clawed upward, vanishing into smog. The people below moved in rigid lines, not unlike soldiers, but their faces were hollow. They hurried across the black ridges of the streets, holding glowing stones in their palms and speaking into them as if trapped inside private prayers.

Alai clutched Tempest’s hand, her small eyes wide. The child had barely spoken since the river crossing, and now her gaze darted from one passerby to the next — as if the endless tide of faces were more frightening than the war they had left behind.

The smell was unbearable — oil, smoke, and something that might once have been food. They passed an open restaurant, if the word still fit, its walls made of glass so that diners could be watched as they performed their rituals of consumption. Inside, people laughed — sharp, brittle sounds that echoed like clinking metal. They tore at bright-colored meals, sipping fizzing liquids while, just outside the door, a boy with a dirty face and sunken eyes sat watching, unmoving.

No one noticed him.

“This place…” Tempest murmured. “It’s like everyone’s pretending not to see each other.”

Azazel’s reply came slow, distracted. “Maybe they don’t know how to anymore.”

They kept walking. No direction, no purpose — just the ache of motion. The noise became their companion, drowning thought, dulling their anger but never soothing it.

It was then that Azazel began to see the pattern.
The sameness. The way every person wore the same colorless garments, like a uniform of apathy. The way they moved — rehearsed, mechanical — as if all were following some silent choreography. It felt like wandering through a masquerade where everyone had forgotten the reason for the dance.

But beyond the symmetry of streets and machines, something broke the rhythm.

From an alley choked with debris and graffiti, came the sound of laughter — real laughter, deep and unrestrained. Light flickered there, not from machines but from fire.

Azazel turned toward it.

In the heart of the ruins, a small group of people spun bright chains of flame — poi, twirling arcs of color that painted the soot-black walls in streaks of gold and crimson. The dancers’ clothes were torn, their faces smeared with soot and joy alike. Around them, others clapped and played makeshift drums made from discarded metal. The music was raw and alive, breaking through the dull hum of the city like a heartbeat.

Tempest watched, almost smiling. “They don’t belong here,” she said quietly.

“Maybe,” Azazel replied, his eyes narrowing. “Or maybe this place forgot it belonged to them.”

The wind carried the smell of smoke and oil and something else — freedom, fleeting and fragile.
And for the first time since they had come ashore, Azazel felt something stir within his chest that wasn’t anger.

The hum of the city receded as they walked deeper into the maze of broken streets. The towers of glass and steel gave way to hollow shells of buildings—walls scorched, windows boarded, and the black asphalt fractured like an old scar. Here, the noise was different. Louder. Harsher. Fear walked the Asphalt freely. Roaring beast careened down the Asphalt, with men who were frowns and adorned shields on their brest controlling them.

Alai had fallen asleep not long after they entered this part of the city, her small frame rising and falling gently against Azazel’s back. Every now and then, her hand twitched in dream. He carried her carefully, one arm looped beneath her legs.

Tempest’s eyes caught the dancing lights first—the flicker of orange and gold threading through the dark. “Over there,” she said, pointing toward the glow.

Azazel followed her gaze and frowned. “No. Too exposed.”

“They’re just dancers,” she said. “We’ve seen worse than fire.”

He hesitated. “We’ve also seen what happens when you trust strangers.”

Tempest turned to him, her voice soft but carrying the weight of exhaustion. “I haven’t had a good dance in ages, Azazel. Let me breathe a little before the next fight finds us.”

She didn’t wait for permission. Her feet carried her toward the sound of drums.

The clearing opened like a wound between the ruins—half-collapsed walls framing a small circle of firelight. Three figures moved within it, their bodies alive with rhythm. Their clothes were a startling contrast to the world outside: flowing fabrics dyed in colors that the city itself seemed to have forgotten—sunset orange, ocean teal, a deep plum that shimmered whenever the firelight touched it. Their garments clung and drifted all at once, exposing arms and legs to the open air, as if their bodies were reclaiming the right to feel sunlight and wind.

When Tempest stepped into the light, the dancers froze mid-motion. The drums faltered.

For a heartbeat, no one moved. Their faces—one man, two women—were taut with fear. The man’s hand hovered protectively near a metal rod, while one of the women took a cautious step back, eyes darting to Azazel’s strange, smoldering presence at the edge of the fire.

Azazel shifted slightly, just enough for the glow of his eyes to meet theirs. That was enough—their tension snapped taut. The air felt brittle with distrust.

Tempest raised both hands, palms open, smiling faintly. “Easy,” she said. “I came to dance, not to burn.”

Her tone disarmed them more than any magic could. Slowly, she stepped closer to the flames and began to move.

At first, her motions were small—testing, teasing the rhythm. But soon the wind began to follow her. It wrapped around her ankles and wrists, catching the edges of her tattered cloak and turning it into a living current. Her movements became the storm she carried—grace woven through defiance. The fire bent toward her, drawn as if to an old friend.

The three dancers watched in awe. Then, one by one, they joined in. The drums picked up again—uneven at first, then steady. Their feet struck the earth in time with hers, their colors and movements bleeding together into something wild and free.

Azazel watched from the shadows, half-hidden behind the glow. He hadn’t seen Tempest like this before—unguarded, laughing under the breath of her own storm.

When the song ended, one of the women—a short, copper-skinned dancer with streaks of blue paint across her cheeks—laughed breathlessly. “No oinker could move like that,” she said, wiping sweat from her brow.

The others laughed too, but the tension in their eyes hadn’t fully gone.

Azazel tilted his head. “Oinker?”

The dancer grinned, though her smile carried a hint of bitterness. “City folk. The ones who live fat off the system’s while we get its scraps. You’ll see them everywhere up there.” She nodded toward the high towers that loomed over the ruins like watchful idols. “They don’t come down here. Not unless they’re up to no good."

The firelight flickered across Tempest’s face as her dance slowed.

The air that had been alive with rhythm and movement began to settle—wind untangling from her hair, fire returning to its natural sway. The night inhaled deeply, and in that breath, Azazel felt it.

Something subtle.
A tremor—not of the earth, but of presence.

His gaze drifted past the dancers, beyond the circle of flame and ruin. For a heartbeat, the air ahead shimmered, bending faintly like heat over metal. A distortion hung in the distance, pulsing once before dissolving as Tempest’s final motion came to rest.

The moment her foot stilled, the sensation vanished. Whatever it was—residual Naten, a ripple in reality, a shadow watching—it had withdrawn.

Azazel stared hard into the dark, unmoving. The sound of laughter and drums around him faded into a dull hum, as though he were submerged underwater. Words reached him, but meaning did not. He listened for the disturbance instead—for the faint whisper that had tugged the edge of his awareness.

He found nothing.

“…That was incredible,” one of the dancers was saying, drawing him reluctantly back. “I’ve never seen anyone move like that. Where’d you learn to dance like that?”

Tempest, still catching her breath, smiled faintly. “It’s from—”

“—the islands,” Azazel cut in before she could finish. His tone was sharp, too quick to sound casual.

All three dancers turned to him.

“The islands?” the copper-skinned woman repeated, eyes widening. “Wait—*the* islands? The ones where they said a weather balloon fell?”

Tempest blinked, uncertain, but the girl was already rushing ahead with wild excitement.

“They said the whole forest went up in flames, like the sky itself came down! But that wasn’t no balloon—everyone knows that! You don’t scorch an entire coastline over a bit of scrap metal!” She laughed nervously, brushing a curl from her face as she leaned closer. “You were there, weren’t you? Tell me what really happened!”

Azazel said nothing. His jaw tightened, eyes still drawn toward the place where the air had shimmered moments before.

The woman didn’t seem to notice. She was already studying their clothes—the worn fabrics, the ash-stained hems, the symbols stitched into the folds.

“You even dress like them,” she said. “The aboriginals that live near the Ridge—their clothes have the same patterns! Gods, you must’ve seen everything—what was it like? Did the government—”

“Xeia.” One of her companions, a tall man with a shaved head and wary eyes, touched her shoulder. “Let them breathe.”

Xeia stopped mid-sentence, glancing between Azazel’s unchanging expression and the small, sleeping child on his back. Something in her excitement faltered.

“Right… sorry,” she murmured, stepping back.

The third dancer—older, calmer, with eyes that gleamed like the sky—offered a thin smile and asked gently, “You two live near here, then? Got somewhere to rest?”

Tempest and Azazel exchanged a look—her curiosity still glowing faintly from the dance, his silence thick with thought.

“No,” Tempest said. “We’re just passing through.”

The man nodded slowly. “Then you’ll want to stay off the main ridge after dark. The Oinkers don’t take kindly to strangers wandering the streets.”

Azazel’s gaze flicked back toward the darkness, where the ripple had been. Whatever it was, it had vanished completely—but his instincts whispered it hadn’t gone far.

The slums were alive, but not with joy.
They buzzed with the hum of distant machinery, the hiss of vents, and the chatter of people who moved without looking up. Every wall was blackened by soot, and the ground was paved with a dark, tar-like stone that swallowed the moonlight.

Tempest and Azazel followed the dancers through narrow lanes where metal shanties leaned against glass towers—cracked, leaning, and desperate to remain standing. Alai slept soundly on Azazel’s back until Xeia, bright and unguarded, mentioned food.

“You haven’t lived until you’ve had fried va'ka,” Xeia grinned, leading the way.

Azazel didn’t recognize the word—but Alai stirred, her little fingers tightening against his shoulder.

“Vashka!” she shouted in correction, half-awake, a smile breaking across her soot-smudged face.

Xeia laughed, delighted. “See? She knows what’s good!”

As they walked, the slums unfolded around them. People sat on steps with hollow eyes, watching flickering screens in shattered windows. Children dug through piles of rusted scrap beside fountains that no longer ran. Every few blocks, a massive structure loomed—adorned with glowing symbols, its walls smooth and sterile, humming with faint light.

Each bore different words, etched or projected above their doors: *Salvation Awaits*, *The Dawn Is Near*, *Suffer No More*.

To Azazel, they felt like open wounds—monuments built to promise hope in places designed to kill it. He could see people lining up outside, their faces lit by neon halos, their eyes already dead.

Xeia noticed the way his gaze lingered, the way his shoulders tensed. “You get used to it,” she said softly.

Azazel stopped, turning toward her. His expression was calm, but his voice held something sharp.

“I won’t,” he said. “And I don’t think anyone should.”

The words hung heavy in the air. Even the distant noise seemed to fade.

Xeia forced a small smile, rubbing the back of her neck. “…You’re one of those serious types, huh?”

Tempest chuckled, a low, knowing laugh. “He is. But… he’s not wrong.” Her gaze flicked up to one of the towering buildings, its false light spilling across cracked pavement. “These places advertise hope and deliverance and litter almost every corner, yet…”

She trailed off, unable—or unwilling—to finish the thought.

For a moment, no one spoke.

Then the bald dancer, breaking the silence, clapped his hands together. “There’s an Underglow tonight!” he said with forced cheer.

Xeia’s eyes lit up instantly. “Yeah!” She spun on her heel, her skirts catching the faint glow of streetlights. “You’re right!”

Her energy was infectious; even Azazel felt a corner of his mouth tug upward, just slightly.

“What’s the Underglow?” he asked.

The bald man grinned. “It’s an underground scene—music, art, rebellion, the good stuff. Everyone who’s anyone shows up eventually.”

Xeia nodded eagerly. “And I heard he’ll be there. Nine Breaker.”

Tempest and Azazel exchanged a glance. “Nine… what?” Tempest asked.

Xeia gawked at them. “Oh my gods, you really aren’t from around here, are you? I feel like I’m talking to an alien.”

Azazel frowned faintly, unsure whether it was meant as an insult or not. Tempest tilted her head, whispering, “What’s an alien?”

Xeia blinked, then waved a hand. “Never mind! Nine Breaker’s a hero—”

The bald dancer snorted. “A myth.”

“Whatever!” Xeia fired back, folding her arms. “He’s a hero! And I bet he’s the one who leveled that forest you’re from! *
Ya see?”

The bald man groaned dramatically. “Here we gooo…”

“Shut it!” Xeia barked. “I heard the government was there looking for someone—and they found the Champion himself. Nine Breaker! I heard it from a procast!”

“A procast, huh?” the bald man mocked with an exaggerated sneer.

Xeia froze, her confidence cracking. She looked down, lips pressed tight.

Tempest’s eyes narrowed enough to make the bald man’s smirk falter.

Azazel spoke quietly, his tone steady. “Go on, Xeia.”

Xeia looked up, surprised, and after a moment, nodded. “I heard the Nine will be at the Underglow,” she said, softer now. “And I’m gonna ask him to let me join his crew.”

Her words carried a strange sincerity—half dream, half defiance. For a brief instant, it almost felt like hope.

The group stood in a narrow vein of the slums where the lamps hummed softly, shivering against a stagnant night. The faint orange light swayed over their faces — Tempest’s calm composure, Xeia’s jittery excitement, and Mordi’s stoic indifference.

Xeia was still glowing from her own idea.
“You two have to come to the Underglow with us,” she said, bouncing on her toes. “It’s— it’s like nothing you’ve ever seen.”

Mordi scoffed, rubbing his neck with an idle hand. “They probably won’t like it.”

“Nonsense,” Xeia fired back, rolling her eyes.

But Mordi didn’t let it pass this time. His tone sharpened. “You don’t even know them.”

Xeia blinked, caught off guard. “I do too!”

He turned, and the streetlight caught the faint sheen of sweat on his shaved head. “You don’t,” he said firmly. “They don’t even know my name… and you don’t know theirs”

The laughter that had been resting on her lips died quietly. Xeia’s mouth opened, then faltered. Her hand rose in half-formed protest, trembling between denial and confusion. Her eyes darted to Azazel and Tempest—trying to recall when introductions had been made, when she’d learned their names. But there was nothing. Just the vivid feeling of familiarity, like she’d always known them.

And then—
“It’s okay,” Tempest said gently. Her voice carried through the charged air like a soft chord. “I’m Tempest.”

The syllables cut through the haze. For a fraction of a second before she spoke, Azazel’s head snapped around so violently it startled Xeia. His senses screamed in unison; the world went taut. That presence—that distortion—was back. Not a figment. Not chance.

He turned so fast that Alai jolted awake on his back, blinking drowsily as Azazel’s muscles locked into battle-readiness.

“Azazel…?” Tempest’s voice barely reached him, laced with wary calm.

His jaw flexed. “I don’t know… something.”

Xeia took a wary step back, her voice breaking through the tension. “Whoa! Holy fuck—calm down. You’re scaring everyone.*”

Azazel didn’t respond. His body remained still, eyes fixed toward the void between two ruined buildings. The air thickened, humming like static. Xeia and the quieter dancer recoiled instinctively, hands half-raised, as though expecting him to explode.

But not Mordi.
He didn’t move—didn’t flinch. His eyes tracked Azazel’s movements with unnerving fascination, like a predator studying another of its kind.

Tempest saw the look in Mordi’s eyes. She didn’t show it, but her instincts flared. With a smooth, deliberate motion, she stepped closer and wrapped a calming arm around Azazel’s shoulder.

“Relax,” she whispered. “Is anything there?”

For a long breath, he said nothing. His pulse slowed. The haze that gripped him slipped away, leaving only the dull ache of uncertainty. Finally, his shoulders eased.
“…I guess,” he said, forcing a dry laugh, “it was nothing.”

Xeia exhaled sharply. “You guess? What were you expecting, a demon or something?”

Her attempt at humor didn’t land; the tremor in her voice betrayed her unease. Still, she pushed forward, flipping her hair back with mock defiance. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe you shouldn’t be at the Underglow.”

But Mordi’s voice came in hard, cutting her off.
“No,” he said. “I was wrong.”

He looked directly at Azazel, the faintest grin ghosting across his face. “They should come.”

The plaza pulsed with life. The singer’s final note lingered in the air like mist, and then the crowd erupted—not in frenzy, but in unity. Music swelled again, brighter this time, with drums that felt like thunder hidden beneath the skin.

Tempest was the first to move. Her hips swayed, her arms flowed like ribbons caught in a warm current. The other dancers—Xeia, Juli, even stoic Mordi—joined in, their laughter rising and falling in the glow of flickering fires. Fire blowers took to the air, painting the night with great tongues of light that curved and writhed like serpents, chasing each other through the smoky dark. Poi dancers spun luminous trails—some glittering like electric veins, others shaped and alive, weaving illusions of old snake dragons dancing above the crowd.

Tempest turned, her eyes catching the reflection of orange and indigo. She looked radiant—more alive than Azazel had ever seen her. Her laughter carried easily over the roar of the crowd.

“Come on,” she called to him, breathless with joy. “You can’t just watch.”

Azazel hesitated, the familiar wall of vigilance rising in his chest. But it wavered. The rhythm of the crowd—their laughter, the shared pulse—began to seep into him. Alai giggled on his back, clapping her small hands to the beat. Xeia spun by, catching his wrist as she passed, her eyes gleaming like two captured stars. “Just *feel* it!” she shouted, and was gone again in a twirl of orange and green.

For a long moment, he simply stood there, watching.

Then something shifted.

The air thickened with heat and rhythm. The sound of the drums echoed against the walls like heartbeats multiplied. The fire dancers twirled, their embers scattering into the air, and Azazel could almost smell sand instead of soot. The lights became mirages, and for a breath of time, he was back in the Acrix Desert—home. The heat of the bonfires, the dancing shadows of his kin, the laughter that rose under open stars.

He remembered his mother’s movements, deliberate and graceful. His father’s booming laughter. The way the air shimmered when joy and magic blended—Naten rising like invisible flame around them, threading every soul together.

A smile tugged at his lips, unbidden and real. The knot in his chest loosened.

Tempest caught his expression, her movements slowing just a little. She’d seen him angry, determined, hollow—but this? This was something new. The crowd’s warmth reached him, and he let it.

He closed his eyes and breathed in. The Naten currents danced faintly around him, glowing just beneath his skin. He could feel the joy of the people like light brushing against his thoughts.

But joy, for him, was always laced with danger.

The warmth began to tighten around his ribs. His breath caught. That same Naten—gentle, luminous—now felt invasive, clinging too close. His heartbeat faltered. The sounds around him stretched, warped. Every smile in the crowd began to look too wide. The laughter too loud. It was the same pulse, the same energy—but inverted, distorted by the old instinct that never left him.

He opened his eyes. Everything was still beautiful—music, color, movement—but beneath it all was a low, dull dread. This isn’t right. His pulse quickened. He fought the urge to ignite, to defend, to flee.

But Alai stirred lightly on his back, her small hands resting against his shoulder. Tempest’s voice rose in the rhythm of the music, calling his name once, not in alarm but in invitation. He forced himself to breathe again, to ride the pendulum between bliss and fear without breaking it.

The lights danced brighter. For a moment, he thought he’d mastered it.

Then Tempest’s laughter softened. Her expression shifted from joy to concern. “Azazel,” she said gently, drawing close enough that he could hear her even through the din. “Are you alright? You… look sick.”

He opened his mouth to answer, but—

A scream cut through the music.

Sharp, human, terrified.

It came from somewhere deep in the plaza—far, but close enough that the music faltered. The dancers froze mid-motion, flames snapping in the sudden silence. Poi lights stilled in the air, glowing trails fading like dying comets.

Azazel turned toward the sound, every nerve alive again. Tempest’s eyes found his, both of them locked between instinct and disbelief.

And for a heartbeat, before the panic began to ripple through the Underglow, the Naten around them trembled—like the city itself had just taken a breath.

The festival had turned inside out in an instant.

Where laughter once filled the air, the screams tore through it like glass shattering —raw, confused, and human. Tempest and Azazel froze for only a heartbeat, their heads snapping toward the first sound. A second scream followed, higher, trembling, and then more—until the Underglow was an orchestra of panic.

Mordi shoved his way back through the crowd, his expression pale but vindicated. “I told you,” he barked over the chaos, his voice cutting like gravel through a storm. “I told you this place had a reputation!”

Xeia started to counter, her lips already forming a sharp retort, but her voice died on the air as another wave of cries rolled through the plaza. The music faltered, warped, then stopped altogether when one of the musicians dropped his instrument and fell to the floor, convulsing. The crowd surged backward in response, a hundred voices fracturing into panic as the first dancer stumbled into the fire pit, her body twisting in a terrible silhouette of motion.

Azazel’s heart slammed against his ribs. His eyes darted—reading, tracking, measuring the collapse. Naten was in the air; he could feel it brushing along his senses like a fever, shimmering at the corners of the crowd, dancing where it shouldn’t.

Tempest was the first to speak through gritted teeth, her voice low, taut. “Fuck…” She turned in place, scanning for exits. “You’ve been on edge all day—and now, I guess we’re about to find out why.”

Her breath trembled. Not with weakness, but exhaustion. They had fought too much, lost too much, and here it was again—violence, chaos, the curse that followed them like a shadow that refused to die.

The screams multiplied. Bodies convulsed. People dropped to their knees, clutching their heads, their chests, their eyes. It was like a plague of agony spreading by sound alone. Panic ripped through the plaza.

Xeia and Juli grabbed Alai, dragging her toward a vendor’s stall for cover. Mordi reached for Azazel, shouting something—lost in the cacophony—as the crowd turned to chaos, trampling, pushing, clawing for space to breathe.

Azazel and Tempest fought to stay together, their hands brushing but never quite holding. The crush of the mob broke them apart, bodies pressing, screams blending into the beat of stampeding feet.

Then—
Everything went black.

The lights of the Underglow flickered once, twice, and died. For a few seconds there was only sound: the sobs, the shouting, the distant thud of someone hitting the pavement. Then came the color.

Soft, unnatural, pulsing from the ground up—faint at first, like dying embers in fog. But then the glow spread. The people who had fallen—the ones who’d screamed the loudest—were glowing. Their veins shimmered beneath the skin in strange hues: blue, green, violet, gold. Polycolor light, alive and unnatural, bleeding through their flesh.

Tempest’s voice came through the dark, barely above a whisper. “Azazel… what the hell is happening?”

He didn’t answer. His eyes were locked on the glowing figures, on the pulse of Naten swirling around them like a mist that had found a heartbeat. His stomach sank. He could feel it—wrong, ancient, calling.

And somewhere in the blackness, deep in the crowd’s confusion, something laughed. A familiar yet unrecognizable voice. Tempest and Azazel looked to one another gor answer, but only found confusion and fear in each others glance.

The world did not end in screams.
It ended in silence—and began again in light.

The bodies on the ground twitched once, twice, and then—slowly—rose. The glow within them intensified, colors bleeding through their skin like living constellations. One man, shaking, opened his hands and watched flame bloom between his fingers, flickering in rhythm with his breath. Another woman gasped as her shadow peeled from her feet and fluttered upward, reshaping itself into wings. Someone laughed, the sound wild and disbelieving, as cracks of lightning danced along his shoulders.

The Underglow—once the stage of chaos—became still. The crowd, battered and terrified, looked on in stunned awe. The lights of the city stuttered back to life, flooding the plaza in pale gold. For a moment, disbelief held everyone hostage.

And then—cheers.

People who’d been sobbing moments before began to shout with joy. Some clapped, some screamed names, others fell to their knees as if witnessing divine revelation. Strangers embraced. Phones rose like relics ready to record it all. It was a miracle—no, it was impossible.

The crowd reacted with a mix of confusion and apprehension, Superpowers were myth, digital trickery, old world superstition. No one awakened. Not here. Not ever. And yet… dozens had.

Tempest stood beside Azazel, her eyes wide, her voice quiet. “Its naten…emerging for the first time, Azazel.”

Azazel didn’t answer. His expression was unreadable, the silver of his eyes catching the reflections of every color in the square. Around them, laughter mingled with the static hum of newfound energy, the scent of ozone, the pulse of something immense.

“Was it the music,” Tempest murmured, her gaze flicking toward the silent stage. “Or the dancing. The Underglow’s supposed to connect people. Maybe it… actually did?”

“Maybe it was both. Together, they must have resisted some condition, or perhaps an Arbiter,” Azazel replied, his tone low, almost reluctant. “Sound and motion… together, they can shape resonance. Stir the flow of Naten;but, for breakthroughs like this, you need a strong catalyst. Maybe Terra is under the inflictions of something. There has to be a type of spell, a Grand Arbiter suppressing their Naten, creating the Scarcity Kangal spoke of.”

She gave a short, nervous laugh. “You mean—a subterfuge?”

His eyes narrowed, scanning the crowd. “Maybe…”

For a brief heartbeat, the world felt safe again—colorful, bright, jubilant. But that illusion fractured as a single hair on Azazel’s head lifted toward the air, charged, like metal near a storm. The warmth around them died. His skin prickled.

Tempest saw his expression change before he moved. “Something here, i feel—”

Azazel’s head snapped to the right. His pupils were constricted. “There!”

*BOOM.*

The sound cracked through the plaza like thunder from an empty sky.

Every light flickered. Every breath froze.

High above them, one of the newly awakened—still glowing with auric radiance—was suspended in the air. Not floating. Held. His body jerked once, limbs stiff, as if bound by invisible chains. The glow around him dimmed as his chest split open in a sudden, wet explosion of light and blood.

The crowd screamed.

Azazel’s heart pounded in his throat. He could feel it now—the same oppressive pressure that had stalked his senses since before the Festival, before the joy, before the fire. The presence. The thing that I had watched.

He looked up into the void between buildings and lights, and though his eyes saw nothing, every fiber of his being screamed monster.

Tempest followed his gaze, trembling. “Azazel… I can't see it!?”

He spoke slowly, every word scraping past the dread crawling up his spine.

“The reason we felt afraid,” he said. “It’s here. And it’s hunting the ones who dared to wake.”

The corpse in the air dropped like a stone. The light within him died on impact.

And then—across the plaza—the air rippled.

Another newly awakened was pulled upward, screaming, lifted by invisible claws.

The miracle had become a massacre.

(Alai will have her name changed for the remainder of this reading. Alai is now Lyssa.)

The Underglow dissolved into hysteria.

Screams pierced the music; the rhythm fractured into chaos. Bodies surged, collided, fell. The air that moments ago shimmered with warmth and color now split with terror—roars, cries, explosions of light and blood.

Something unseen tore through the crowd. You could hear it, even if you couldn’t see it—the tearing of air, the crunch of bone, the ripping wail of another awakening ending in a scream.

Tempest’s hand clutched Azazel’s arm as they pushed through the chaos, but the mass of bodies broke them apart again and again. Someone fell between them, someone else clawed upward, reaching for help that wasn’t there.

“Lyssa!” Tempest shouted, but her voice vanished into the storm.

Azazel scanned wildly, eyes burning with naten. He could feel it—the pressure, the distortion. The invisible predator was loose, moving like a phantom between the flares of awakening. Each time someone’s body flared with new light or power, the thing turned and fed.

“Fuck—Tempest! Lyssa’s gone!”

“I know!” she yelled back, eyes wide with both panic and resolve. “You look for her— I’ll keep people safe!”

“No, you don’t understand! The monster—it’s hunting the awakened! If she—”

But it was too late. She was already gone, swallowed by the tide of panicked bodies.

Azazel turned—and froze.

Xeia was on her knees, trembling, light bursting from beneath her skin in jagged streaks of violet and blue. Her eyes darted, terrified. Energy built around her like a storm.

And then—Lyssa.

The child screamed, not just in fear, but in resonance. Her small body crackled with unstable energy, arcs of light jumping from her fingertips to the ground.

Tempest saw it. Saw the creature direct its attention to Lyssa and everything else fell away.

“Lyssa!”

She sprinted through the chaos, leaping over fallen bodies and shoving past fleeing civilians. Azazel could only watch as her silver hair flashed through the dark—she was faster than anyone had the right to be, but not fast enough.

The invisible creature twisted toward the sound of Lyssa’s scream. The ground split where its weight fell. Air warped.

Azazel’s instincts screamed at him to move—to act—but he didn’t. He couldn’t.

In his world, every being had naten in their blood; awakening wasn’t an event, it was existence. But here—this world, this planet—this was something entirely foreign. The balance was wrong. The air itself felt sick.

Why now? Why here? Who did he help?
And what in all the unseen realms was that thing?

He hesitated—and in that hesitation, Lyssa nearly got hurt, or worse.

The monster lunged. Air bent inward, forming a massive void where its claws should have been. Lyssa screamed, raw power spilling from her screeching voice

And then—

BOOOOM.

A thunderclap cracked the sky open.

A figure descended in its wake, trailing ribbons of electricity and golden rings that hummed with harmonic resonance. His impact rippled across the plaza like divine percussion, the ground beneath him fracturing outward in perfect concentric circles.

The invisible beast was caught mid-motion—then crushed flat beneath his arrival, its unseen body snapping with a wet, thunderous finality. The creature dissolved, leaving behind only the echo of its howl.

Every light within sight flickered. Everyone froze.

Xeia’s trembling eyes widened, awe overtaking fear. “That… that’s him,” she breathed. “N-n-nine Breaker…”

From the smoke behind him emerged several others—young, rough-edged, carrying makeshift weapons cobbled from scrap and circuitry. No armor. No sleek design. Just worn clothes, leather wraps, courage, and fear.

Nine Breaker turned his head, voice steady but resonant like a storm about to break.

“Remember the plan, Anti. Rescue as many awakened as possible. Avoid contact with Nullborne.”

He looked skyward, expression hardening.

“I’ll be their enemy.”

The crew—half terrified, half electrified—nodded as one, their voices overlapping:

“Sir!”

And as the last word echoed, the Underglow—once the heart of music and freedom—became a battlefield.