The gathering table had cleared, its flickering blue map now dim and dormant. The last echo of boots on metal faded down the hallway, leaving behind only silence and Shun. The chamber, once alive with the gossiping of strategists and the clatter of data tablets, now felt like a hollowed-out relic. The air was thick with the scent of ozone and polished steel, the summit's energy vents humming faintly in the walls. Beyond the reinforced dome, the wind wailed across the barren surface, a reminder of the hostile world outside.
"Xin," Shun said quietly, not turning around. "Stay for a moment."
Xin froze mid-step, already halfway through the chamber doors. He glanced over his shoulder at the older man. Shun stood at the edge of the war table, head bowed slightly, hands resting on the hilt of his sheathed sword. That alone was strange. Shun never rested. His posture was always rigid, disciplined, a living monument to duty. Now, there was a slump to his shoulders, a weight that seemed to pull him toward the floor.
Xin approached, eyes narrowing. "What is it?"
Shun didn't speak at first. The silence stretched, filled only by the soft hum of the summit's energy vents and the distant wind clawing at the dome. Finally, Shun exhaled, a slow, heavy breath that carried years of unspoken burdens. "You need to stay here. With Raven."
Xin blinked, caught off guard. "What?"
"You're not coming with us," Shun said firmly, his voice low but unyielding. "This mission—we can't risk taking both Regalia."
"That's insane," Xin snapped, stepping closer, his boots ringing against the metal floor. "You just said this operation was going to be dangerous. You need me. We're down two squads already. You tasked me with training the recruits because they don't have anyone else. You can't expect me to sit this one out."
"I know," Shun replied, his voice heavier than Xin had ever heard it. "Which is exactly why you need to stay. If something happens to me... if I don't come back... the summit still needs to stand."
"That's not fair and you know it," Xin said, his voice rising, sharp with frustration. He gestured toward the war table, its dormant map a silent witness to their argument. "You don't get to carry this alone. You've been carrying it for years, and it's killing you. I see it. We all see it."
Shun finally looked up. His eyes were sunken, bloodshot, framed by dark circles that spoke of sleepless nights and endless battles. His armor—immaculate as always, polished to a mirror sheen—looked like it weighed a thousand pounds on his shoulders. "Xin... this place isn't just a base. It's home. Over half the people here aren't Emergents. They can't survive the surface without protection. You and I—we're the only two with Regalia. Without it, they burn."
Xin's jaw tightened, and he looked away for a moment, his gaze drifting to the chamber's far wall, where a reinforced window offered a glimpse of the world beyond. Past the shimmering protective dome, he saw a father and his child sitting on a patch of artificial grass, sharing a quiet meal. The child was laughing, her voice a faint, muffled sound through the glass. The father looked tired but grateful, his hand resting gently on her shoulder. Xin's chest tightened. This place—this fragile sanctuary—was more than a stronghold. It was a lifeline.
"Then take the sword and leave the sheathe here," Xin said suddenly, his voice cutting through the silence. "You said your Regalia could split. If both can conjure a protective dome, then—"
"The sword's power is different," Shun interrupted, his eyes flickering with something unreadable. "It's not just protection. It can cut through chaos."
Xin stared at him, frustration giving way to confusion. "What the hell does that even mean?"
Shun's voice dropped, almost breaking under the weight of his words. "It means this mission could end this Act. End the entire cycle. We might finally break free."
Xin paused, the words sinking in like a blade. He saw something in Shun's expression that he hadn't seen in years—not since the Fall, not since they lost Sector Five to the ash and flame of the surface. Desperation. Tiredness. Yearning. Hope. It was a look that made Xin's stomach twist, a look that spoke of a man who had carried too much for too long.
"I've watched too many die for this," Shun murmured, his gaze lowering to the war table. "I can't watch this place fall, too."
Xin clenched his fists, the heat of anger rising in his chest. "You think I want that? You think I don't care about these people? Don't you dare guilt me into—"
"I'm not," Shun said, his voice steady but soft. "I'm trusting you. With everything."
The words hit Xin like a physical blow, silencing him. He turned, walking a few paces away, trying to steady the storm of emotions swirling inside him. His eyes drifted back to the window, to the empty patch of grass where the father and child had been. This place… it meant something. Not just to him, but to every soul within the dome. The recruits he'd trained, the families who'd carved out a life here, the children who laughed despite the desolation outside—they all depended on the summit. On the Regalia. On him.
A slow exhale escaped him. His fingers relaxed, though his hands still trembled faintly.
"…Fine," he said at last, his voice low, almost a growl. "But you better come back safely."
A small smile broke through Shun's tired exterior, a rare crack in his stoic facade. "I always do."
"No," Xin said, stepping forward again, his voice sharp. "You don't. You come back broken, bleeding, carrying corpses and regrets. I'm telling you this as your comrade and as your friend—come back whole."
Shun's smile faded, but his eyes softened. He nodded, a slow, deliberate motion. "Understood."
Xin reached forward, gripping Shun's shoulder, his fingers digging into the cold metal of his armor. "I'll hold the summit. I'll keep them safe. But don't you dare die and leave me in charge of this madness."
Shun gave a dry chuckle, the sound almost foreign coming from him. He stepped back, his hand moving to the hilt of his sword. With a metallic whisper, he unsheathed it, and the Regalia split. Light flowed from the blade like ribbons of golden silk, shimmering in the dim chamber. The sword and sheathe separated, each gleaming with divine energy, their surfaces etched with runes that pulsed faintly, as if alive.
Shun tossed the sheathe to Xin, who caught it with a grunt. It was heavier than it looked, radiating a warmth that wasn't heat—more like a memory, a promise. Xin turned it over in his hands, feeling the weight of its power, its purpose. The sheathe was sleek, its surface a deep obsidian laced with veins of gold. It thrummed faintly, resonating with the energy of the dome outside.
"That sword and sheathe will bring us victory," Shun said, his voice steady now, resolute. He held the sword aloft, its blade catching the faint light of the chamber, casting fleeting reflections across the walls. "The sword will carve the path. The sheathe will hold the summit."
Xin met his gaze, his own resolve hardening. "And you," he said, "don't break the sword. Or yourself."
Shun nodded, a silent vow passing between them. He stepped toward the door, pausing only once before crossing the threshold. "…Thank you, Xin."
The door hissed shut behind him, the sound sharp and final. Xin stood alone in the war room, holding the sheathe in both hands. The room felt colder without Shun's presence, the silence heavier. Or maybe it was just quieter, the absence of his comrade's steady resolve leaving a void.
He looked down at the sheathe, its warmth spreading through his palms. It felt alive, as if it carried the weight of every life within the summit. He turned toward the window again, but the father and child were gone now—perhaps inside, perhaps asleep. The artificial grass lay empty, bathed in the faint glow of the dome's protective field.
"I'll protect them," Xin whispered, his voice barely audible over the hum of the vents. "But you'd better keep your promise."
Outside, the wind howled against the dome, a relentless reminder of the world beyond. The war preparations had begun, and with them, the weight of what was to come settled over the summit like a gathering storm. Xin tightened his grip on the sheathe, its warmth steadying him. He would hold this place. He would keep it safe. For the recruits. For the families. For the child who laughed in the face of desolation.
And for Shun, who carried the hope of ending the cycle.