The room pulsed with a faint blue glow.
The light rippled softly across the metallic floor of the teleportation chamber, reflecting in rhythmic waves across the cold walls. Each pulse echoed like a quiet heartbeat — ancient, precise, mechanical.
Rhyes stood before the central console, his figure still and composed, while Zazm lingered behind him — silent, watchful, his expression as unreadable as ever.
Zazm finally broke the silence. "If we needed to go somewhere, you could've asked me."
Rhyes's voice carried a restrained gravity. "The place we're going," he said, rolling up his sleeve to reveal the faintly glowing mark on his wrist, "can only be accessed through this specific teleportation point."
He pressed his palm against a small crystalline screen that rose from the ground like water taking form. The mark burned faintly against it, and in response, the room's walls illuminated in shifting gold and silver lines — old circuitry reacting to command.
A low hum filled the air.
The ground beneath them rippled once, twice — then light swallowed them whole.
In the next instant, they reappeared.
At first glance, it seemed like the same room — same polished metal, same still air — but a subtle shift revealed otherwise.
The atmosphere was heavier here, older. A smell of sand and stone lingered in the air. Ahead, a door stood — massive, ancient, made from carved black rock.
Rhyes stepped forward and pressed both palms against the slabs. The hinges groaned in protest, as though woken from centuries of slumber. The stone parted, revealing a chamber bathed in faint amber light.
Inside, time itself seemed to hold its breath.
The room stretched endlessly, its walls lined with statues — hundreds of them. Each statue took the form of a bird: wings folded, head lowered, carved in exquisite detail. They stood in silence, arranged with care, their stony feathers shimmering faintly with residual light.
A dry, faint scent of sand and ash lingered.
Zazm stepped inside, his voice calm and low. "What is this place?"
Rhyes's footsteps echoed softly as he walked between the statues. "This," he said, "is where the AMI marks of our predecessors rest. When a Supreme Commander dies, their mark reshapes into one of these birds. It delivers the message of their passing to the remaining Commanders."
Zazm's gaze drifted across the chamber — hundreds, perhaps thousands of statues, all standing like silent witnesses. "So these are all… Supreme Commanders?"
Rhyes nodded slightly. "Every one of them. Their marks — their essence — remains here. This place is known only to us. The living don't walk here without reason."
He moved toward an empty pedestal near the corner — a vacant space waiting to be filled.
From within his cloak, he withdrew the small bird he had carried — Myterl Eremore's AMI mark, now hardened into cold stone.
"Watch carefully, Zazm," Rhyes said.
He placed the bird gently upon the pedestal, then withdrew a small knife — old and ceremonial, its blade etched with intricate runes. Without hesitation, he slit his palm. The blood fell in slow droplets onto the stone bird.
The chamber responded.
A faint hum reverberated through the walls, like the exhale of something long asleep.
The blood hissed and evaporated the moment it touched the statue, steam curling up in thin red wisps.
Rhyes spoke quietly. "You know how AMI weapons are bound. Only their owners — and those they choose — can wield them. When an owner dies, their AMI weapon must be destroyed, or risk being stolen by remnants."
"The blood of supreme commander has been enhanced with some drugs that destroy them normal people can't take these drugs or else they'll die the moment it enters their blood."
Zazm's eyes remained steady. "Why not give it to other humans?"
Rhyes shook his head. "It's impossible. AMI essence cannot transfer to humans. Only remnants can absorb it, and only before they awaken their powers."
The blood continued to drip, the sizzling sound echoing faintly. Then, as the last drop fell, the reaction stopped. The statue shimmered once, its color deepening.
Rhyes wiped his hand against his cloak and murmured, "They dissolve only in blood. Remember this, Zazm. One day, you may need to do this for me. It's the only funeral we ever receive."
Zazm said nothing. His face remained as still and cold as the statues around them.
The light around the statue brightened. Rhyes walked toward the far corner where slabs of stone lay stacked, each carved with names and numbers.
He picked one up and carried it to the new statue. The pedestal responded — a glowing red line snaked across it, connecting the stone bird to the slab. Letters carved themselves as the light moved.
"Myterl Eremore," it read
Below it — the number 288.
Zazm's gaze lingered. "Two hundred and eighty-eight," he murmured.
Rhyes gave a faint nod. "Her number — the count of her command. She was the 288th Supreme Commander."
Zazm turned his head slightly, eyes drawn to the center of the chamber. A single statue stood there, larger than the rest, its wings half open — as if ready to rise again. He walked toward it. The pedestal beneath it bore only one thing: the number 1.
The name above it was erased — replaced with three etched symbols: "???"
Zazm stopped. "Why does it have no name?"
Rhyes's eyes followed him. "No one knows. Records from that time were lost, erased by the war. But we know this much — humanity stands because of him. He was the one who slew the King."
Zazm's expression didn't change, though his voice grew lower. "He was the one."
Rhyes nodded once. "Yes. How he did it, or what it cost — that's something history never tells."
He turned, glancing once more at Myterl's still-glowing statue."It is a disappointment I could never thank you in person....Supreme Commander Myterl or should I say....."
Rhyes turned around slightly his face monotone. "When you're officially recognized as Supreme Commander, I'll tell you a story."
Zazm's tone was cold as winter wind. "About what?"
Rhyes ignored his question and started walking.
Then, turning toward the exit, he said softly, "Let's go. The dead prefer the quiet."
---
The world shifted.
Light and sand folded into darkness — and when the scene opened again, it was upon the Hall of Crowns.
It was vast, ancient — a cathedral of marble and silver that stretched toward unseen heights. Dozens of royals sat upon long benches, each dressed in robes of jeweled silk and threaded gold. Chandeliers of crystal flame hung from above, casting dim amber light upon the gathering.
At the far end of the hall stood two great thrones — carved of obsidian and white gold — symbols of balance and unity. Beside them stood smaller seats, reserved for those of royal blood.
When the double doors opened, the hall fell into silence.
A soft rustle of fabric followed the sound of measured footsteps.
Queen Elziora Aureline, ruler of Euphoria, entered the hall. Her gown flowed like liquid night — black shifting into rose at its hem, the silk catching faint hues of violet flame. A thin blindfold of black velvet covered her eyes, yet it did not hide her poise. Her crown — wrought from glass and dark steel — rested lightly upon her head, each crest shaped into a sharp winged motif.
Her presence commanded reverence.
Beside her walked Neo, silent, his sharp black eyes scanning every corner of the room. His posture was rigid, his steps disciplined — the stillness of a blade in human form.
Behind them was Supreme Commander Aina, her pale skin as white as snow beneath silver light. Her hair — pure white, like strands of frost — framed her calm face. The gown she wore was simple yet divine, white layered with faint blue silk, her silver pendant glimmering against the soft folds. A small circlet of crystal rested above her forehead — no crown, but close enough to mark her as a princess of command.
The nobles rose in unison, bowing as Elziora approached.
Her steps were soundless upon the marble. She stopped before the twin thrones and sat — her movements deliberate, each gesture carrying the weight of sovereignty. Aina took the smaller throne beside her, while Neo remained behind, vigilant and still.
The Queen lifted her hand.
At once, the hall obeyed and took their seats.
"Is everyone here?" she asked, her voice calm, yet layered with a quiet power that filled the space.
A court minister stepped forward, bowing low. "My Queen, all rulers and representatives of the kingdoms of Euphoria are present — except for the King of Earth. His Majesty informed us he may arrive shortly."
Elziora gave a small nod. "He did. We'll begin without delay."
She straightened in her seat, the faint sound of her bracelets chiming as she folded her hands. "This assembly has been called," she said, "to address the issue regarding the succession of the Obsidian Fang division — and the recent appointment of a remnant as its next Supreme Commander."
Murmurs filled the hall at once — ripples of discontent moving like wind over water.
A noble in crimson robes stood. "Your Majesty, this cannot be permitted. A remnant placed among the Supreme Commanders — it is against all reason."
Another followed, voice sharp. "We've lost entire worlds to their kind. Families — legacies — annihilated by remnants! To place one at the head of our defense is madness."
A woman, regal and adorned in violet silk, rose next. "We demand to know what the other Supreme Commanders were thinking."
Elziora remained silent through the noise. Her fingers tapped lightly against the armrest as she listened. 'This was expected.' she thought
'Disorder is the natural breath of politics.'
When the voices rose too high, she raised her hand again. The hall fell still.
"All your concerns," she said, "are valid. But we cannot discard a weapon because it frightens us."
Her tone sharpened — no longer regal calm, but cutting steel.
"This 'remnant,' as you call him, has fought for humanity longer than most of you have ruled your lands. His record is beyond dispute. To waste such strength for fear of old hatred would be foolish."
Murmurs broke out again — this time quieter, uncertain.
An older noble — tall, with silver hair and a heavy mantle of blue — rose. His voice carried calm authority. "Her Majesty speaks truth. My son has fought beside the remnant called Zazm. I have heard nothing but respect from his men."
A woman at his side nodded. "Indeed. The only way to master a blade," she said, "is with another blade just as sharp. If he is a remnant, then let him be our sword."
But others remained unconvinced. The room trembled between dissent and reason.
That was when Aina rose.
Her silver gown caught the light, and the faint whisper of fabric filled the silence. Her voice was steady, unwavering. "I vouch for him as well," she said. "I have seen his discipline. I have seen his restraint. And unlike any of you — I have seen him bleed for this world."
She looked across the hall, her tone turning cold. "You speak of loss and sacrifice, but we are the ones who stand upon the fields. You govern comfort; we govern survival. The affairs of the battlefield are ours alone."
The hall froze.
Queen Elziora smiled faintly, leaning back on her throne. "Well said."
Her tone softened but her words carried iron. "And besides — the soldiers of the NullFlux bastion already accept him. They, who have lost the most to remnants, see him as one of their own. Are we to dismiss their judgment for ours?"
Her words fell like quiet thunder.
Then she turned her head slightly, her blindfold catching the light. "Wouldn't you agree, King Alistair Vesper?"
The hall changed
Every person rose from their seat in reverence nobles, knights, even Aina and Neo bowed their heads.
From behind the grand doors, footsteps approached — slow, heavy, deliberate.
King Alistair Vesper of Earth entered the hall.
He was tall, his presence commanding yet warm. His brown hair, streaked faintly with silver, was neatly trimmed, and his beard was short, framing a face marked by age and quiet wisdom. His eyes — brown, clear, and steady — carried both kindness and sorrow.
He wore a long robe of deep blue threaded with gold, and over it, a coat of black and crimson that marked his lineage. His crown was simple, forged of iron and platinum, adorned with a single blue gem at its center — modest, yet radiating undeniable authority.
As he walked toward the throne, he spoke calmly. "You stand correct, Lady Elziora."
He paused before the dais. "What transpires on the battlefield cannot be judged by those who have never stood upon it. If the Supreme Commanders deem the remnant Zazm worthy of command, then it is not our place to interfere."
The hall was silent. Even the flickering of the chandeliers seemed to dim.
Elziora inclined her head slightly. "We thank you, Your Majesty, for coming on such short notice."
The King gave a faint smile. "When the daughter of my late friend calls upon me, how could I refuse?"
Elziora tilted her head slightly. "You agree to this decision because of me, then?"
Alistair's smile faded. "No, my Queen. I may see you as my own daughter, but I would never let affection sway judgment. I agree because it is right."
Elziora leaned forward slightly. "Even after all that you lost — shouldn't you hate them most?"
The King's gaze grew distant. "I do," he said quietly. "More than you can imagine. But hatred is not inheritance. You cannot despise all humanity because one human took someone you loved."
His voice resonated through the chamber — calm yet unyielding, carrying the quiet strength of a man who had borne centuries of war.
Elziora's thoughts flickered — 'Uncle Alistair... still the same. Forgiving, yet unmatched in power. He has ruled Earth for over three centuries and never once faltered.'
She stood, the black-and-rose folds of her gown sweeping as she turned. "This meeting is dismissed. You may all return to your duties."
She began to leave, pausing only once to say softly, "Follow me, Your Majesty."
But Alistair remained seated for a moment. "I would," he said, "but I have an important guest waiting. It would be rude to keep him any longer."
Aina looked back, curious. "Who's the guest, Uncle?"
The King smiled faintly and reached out, resting a hand gently upon her head. "Just a guest, little one."
Then he turned and walked out — his robe trailing like the echo of an era long past.
---
The cold wind cut through the silence as King Alistair's dragon rose against the dying light. Clouds tore open under its wings like curtains of silk. The sunset washed the horizon in molten gold, the shadow of the dragon gliding over mountain and mist until it descended upon a lone cliff — a place untouched by man or kingdom.
The dragon exhaled a gust that scattered dust and petals alike.
The king dismounted in a single, graceful motion, his cloak falling behind him like a tide of dark velvet. He walked forward until he saw him — the boy who stood at the edge.
Zazm.
His posture was still. His eyes, unreadable — that strange silver hue that reflected nothing of the world, only the hollow of it.
The king's boots pressed into the dust as he approached. "You're surprisingly quick," he said, his tone calm but heavy with the weight of centuries.
Zazm turned slightly, lowering his head in respect. "I greet the King of Earth," he said, voice cold and even.
The king studied him — the youth with the stance of an ancient. "So you're the remnant chosen to be Supreme Commander," he murmured, walking a slow circle around him. "I must admit… I expected something else."
Zazm looked up, his gaze still flat.
"I was expecting a man of strength and wisdom," Alistair continued, "but what I see is a boy who looks… tired of living. One who bears the look of someone who's already died and returned only to finish what he started."
Zazm's expression didn't waver. "We can only keep living until we die," he said quietly.
The king's lips curved slightly, not in mockery but in understanding. "How old are you?"
Zazm paused. His mind went blank for a second — until a whisper brushed his ear.
"You're almost twenty-two now," Zephyra's voice murmured softly, unseen but present as ever.
"Almost twenty-two," Zazm answered.
The king raised a brow. "Twenty-two? You're still an infant compared to me. I'm four hundred and eighteen years old."
Zazm nodded once. "I'm aware of that."
The king exhaled slowly. "And yet… that's not why I asked. There's something ancient behind those eyes, Zazm. Something far older than I am. Not hundreds of years — but millions. The kind of silence that only eternity breeds."
Zazm looked to the horizon. "Perhaps it's the void," he said, his tone empty. "I trained there for centuries."
Alistair's gaze hardened. "No. This is different. The void strips time, but not life. You… have seen too much, far beyond this world." He let the thought fade, folding his hands behind his back. "But it matters little. That's not why I came."
He turned to face the horizon, the wind tugging at his cloak. "I'll be honest. I despise remnants. I have for a long time. I swore I'd never trust one."
Zazm said nothing.
"But before meeting you, I spoke with those who fought beside you — and all of them, every last one, spoke with respect." He placed a hand on Zazm's shoulder. "And after meeting you… I understand why."
Zazm's tone didn't change. "I intend to fulfill my duty."
The king smiled faintly. "You will. But remember — men like me have no right to question you. We sit on thrones, dine on peace, surrounded by servants who fetch our every breath." His eyes darkened.
"We live comfortably while others bleed. We make decisions, but it's you who pays for them."
Zazm's tone was flat. "A king still carries the lives of many. It's not without weight."
"True," Alistair admitted. "But no king's burden compares to the one who walks hand-in-hand with death every dawn."
The king looked back toward him. "You walk that path, Zazm. I only hope you find an end worthy of it."
He turned, walking back to his dragon, his figure framed in the dying light. "When that day comes," he said softly, "I'll make sure the world remembers your name."
And just like that — the wind swallowed his words, leaving Zazm alone beneath the fading sun.
Hours later, the night deepened.
The quiet hum of NullFlux's corridors had long faded, leaving only the soft ticking of the clock and the low buzz of the golden desk lamp. Papers lay scattered across Zazm's desk —
The lamplight painted his face in shifting gold and shadow, tracing the edges of his calm expression. His pen moved steadily, every stroke measured, deliberate.
The faint creak of the door broke the stillness.
Steam rolled softly from the adjoining room as Zephyra stepped out of the bath.
Her damp purple hair clung to her skin, and as she crossed the room, droplets shimmered in the lamplight before fading into the carpet.
She caught him still working, head bent over another page. "You're still at it?" she asked, her tone caught between boredom and weariness — the kind of tiredness that comes after endless days without real rest.
Zazm didn't look up. His voice was quiet, almost distant. "It'll take time."
Zephyra sighed and sat at the edge of the bed, running the towel through her hair. Each motion was slow, unhurried — she was clearly fighting sleep.
The faint scent of lavender from her bath filled the air, mixing with the metallic tang of ink and paper.
"Keep at it then," she murmured, watching the glow of the lamp flicker in his eyes.
Zazm didn't glanched at her and kept doing what he was.
She rolled her eyes, tossed the towel aside, and slipped under the blanket. "Good luck," she muttered, her voice already fading as her head sank into the pillow. "I'm sleeping."
"Ok!" he said simply, his tone as cold and monotone as always.
Minutes passed. The pen stopped moving.
Zazm leaned back, his gaze finally drifting toward her. The light from his lamp caught her sleeping face — peaceful, unguarded. A few strands of wet hair clung to her cheek.
For a long moment, he said nothing. The silence was complete.
Then, without a sound, he stood. He walked to her side, the floor whispering under his steps, and gently pulled the blanket up to her shoulders. His hand lingered for a brief moment — a quiet, fleeting gesture of care that didn't belong to a man like him.
Then the light flickered once.
And Zazm vanished, leaving only the hum of the lamp and the sleeping figure beneath its glow.
Zazm reappeared outside an enormous mansion — a towering silhouette against the moonlight, its black spires stabbing at the clouds like spears. The air was dead still, heavy with silence. Every window was dark, every corner drowned in shadow. The building wasn't just a home — it was a fortress.
He stood before the iron gates, his hands buried casually in his pockets, his expression unreadable. A faint wind brushed his coat, but his gaze never lifted.
Then he vanished.
A quiet pulse of space distortion rippled through the air — and he was already inside.
The world around him was pitch-black. No sound. No movement. Just the faint echo of his own footsteps across the marble floor.
Then — shing.
A blade sliced the air and pierced through the darkness, lodging itself clean through his raised hand. Zazm didn't even flinch.
Another knife pressed against his neck, the cold steel glinting faintly in the dark.
"How bold of you to come here, Zazm," came a sharp, familiar voice — Paul's, dripping with restrained fury. "You must want to get rid of me. Is that correct?"
Zazm's tone was calm, devoid of life. "You're correct, Paul."
Before Paul could move again, Zazm turned — and Paul's blade struck down. The steel shattered upon contact, fragments scattering like sparks across the floor.
Paul's eyes widened — just before Zazm's fist collided with his face. The impact cracked bone, the sound like glass breaking in a silent room.
Paul hit the floor, jaw dislocated, blood running down his chin.
"Let's talk now," Zazm said flatly. His voice was ice — slow, cold, absolute.
Paul staggered up, spitting blood, his face twisted with rage. "What did you do… why can't I use my powers?!"
Zazm took one step closer. The air warped slightly around him — the faint shimmer of space bending. "Nothing much," he said, tone still lifeless. "You're standing in my space right now."
Before Paul could react, Zazm struck again — a clean punch to the ribs that sent him skidding across the marble. Paul barely caught himself, stumbling upright. He countered with a wild swing, but Zazm's other fist was already there — colliding with his face mid-motion.
Blood sprayed. Teeth cracked.
Zazm didn't slow. Before Paul's body could even fall, Zazm's knee slammed into his stomach, a deep, echoing thud reverberating through the hall.
Paul's ribs caved in under the force. He coughed blood, a choked sound that broke through the silence. His body folded forward, but Zazm caught him by the collar and yanked him closer.
"Still breathing," Zazm muttered. His tone was almost observational, not cruel — as if he were simply taking note of the fact.
Then he drove his knee in again. Another rib snapped. The wet crack of bone echoed off the high ceiling.
Paul collapsed to his knees, gasping, one hand clutching his chest.
Zazm didn't hesitate. He kicked him square in the face. The impact lifted Paul off the ground, sent him sprawling backward into the wall. His skull struck the surface with a hollow thud.
Paul slid down, leaving a faint smear of blood on the white marble. He coughed weakly, voice trembling, "You'll… pay…"
Zazm walked toward him, unhurried. His shadow loomed long across the floor, stretching over Paul's broken form.
"Guess you still are a Supreme Commander," Zazm said, tone void of mockery — as though stating a fact.
He lifted his foot and brought it down — crack. The sound of ribs breaking filled the room.
Paul screamed, voice raw and hoarse, but Zazm's expression didn't change. He lifted his foot again. Another crack. Another scream. The ground started breaking with each kick yet Zazm slammed his foot again.
And again.
And again.
Each stomp came heavier, methodical. Zazm's boot crushed flesh, bone, blood — until Paul's voice broke into guttural shrieks, then faded to trembling gasps, then finally to silence.
When Paul went limp, Zazm finally stopped. His breathing was calm, perfectly even. Not a hair out of place.
He crouched, grabbed Paul by the collar with one hand, and lifted him effortlessly off the ground like he weighed nothing. Paul's body dangled, limp and broken.
Zazm looked at him for a long moment — no hatred, no satisfaction, just empty analysis — before throwing him onto a chair. The body hit the wood with a dull thud.
Zazm raised his hand. The faint glow of Nexus's Gaze flickered in his eyes, cold and dark. The space around Paul shimmered — and his mangled body began to repair itself. Bones reknit, skin sealed, blood evaporated into faint smoke.
Minutes passed. The only sound was the faint hum of reality warping under Zazm's control.
Finally, Paul's eyes fluttered open. He gasped sharply, his body whole but trembling, tied to the chair with glowing restraints. He looked down — at his healed chest, his repaired ribs, his unbroken limbs.
Then up — at Zazm, sitting opposite him, calm as ever. One leg crossed, his elbow resting on the chair arm, fingers interlocked. His gaze, dull and golden, watched without emotion.
Paul's throat tightened. "Why did you heal me," he rasped, "if you wanted to kill me?"
Zazm's reply came after a small pause — not hesitation, but precision. "Killing you has more disadvantages than benefits. Therefore," he said evenly, "I concluded it's better to bring you to my side."
Paul let out a shaky laugh — low, mocking, bitter. "You really think I'd do that?"
Zazm didn't respond immediately. He only tilted his head slightly, the lamplight catching his eyes — two faint, golden voids that reflected no warmth, no life.
_________________________