The vast, empty hall stretched endlessly in every direction—a boundless expanse of sterile white.
There were no walls, no ceiling, no floor—only an infinite void of pure, unbroken light.
And yet, amidst this nothingness, a single figure floated, suspended in perfect stillness.
Thousands of swords hovered around her, their blades gleaming in the dimensionless space, arranged as if in silent worship.
Their edges did not tremble; they did not waver.
Simply put, they were an extension of her presence and will.
Alexander exhaled slowly, her breath the only sound in the hollow expanse.
Then, with deliberate grace, she unfolded her legs from their meditative cross and let herself drift into a standing position.
The swords quivered in response, as if stirred by an unseen wind, before descending one by one into the abyss below—swallowed by the infinite dark beneath her.
Her boots touched down upon a solitary black cube, the only solid surface in this formless realm.
Beneath it? Nothing. Only the abyss.
With a final glance at the emptiness around her, Alexander stepped forward—and the world shifted.
The white hall dissolved, replaced by the austere architecture of a military facility.
The air here was colder, sharper, carrying the weight of duty and command.
Waiting for her just beyond the threshold was Kael.
The Sarkaz had changed. No longer the lean, uncertain disciple of years past, he stood tall now—broad-shouldered, his frame solid beneath the structured lines of his military uniform.
His crimson eyes, once restless, were steady. Time had honed him into something formidable.
"Master," he greeted, dipping his head in respect.
Before Alexander could respond, another voice chimed in—bright but disciplined.
"You took your time."
Liora leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, a smirk playing at her lips.
She had grown too, though her energy remained as sharp as the daggers she favored.
Alexander regarded them both, a rare warmth flickering in her gaze. Pride, quiet but undeniable.
Then, business.
"I need you to look into something for me," she said. "Cults. Old ones, new ones—anything stirring in the shadows."
No further explanation was needed. They understood.
Kael nodded once. "Consider it done."
Liora pushed off the wall, rolling her shoulders.
"Any particular flavor of zealots we should prioritize?"
"All of them," Alexander said simply.
A beat of silence. Then, in unison, the two disciples bowed and turned, striding off to their task without another word.
Left alone, Alexander exhaled again, the weight of command settling over her shoulders.
She moved to her quarters, shedding her formal suit with practiced efficiency.
In its place, she donned her military uniform—a double-breasted black coat, its high collar stiff, its epaulettes marking rank and authority.
The silver insignia on the back—a scale, perfectly balanced—gleamed under the dim light.
She adjusted her peaked cap, its brim casting a shadow over her silver eyes, ensuring every detail was immaculate.
The meeting was awaited.
****
Inside the grand hall stood a large round table, its polished surface reflecting the pale chandelier light above.
One by one, figures in crisp military uniforms filtered in, each taking their designated seat.
They wore double-breasted white coats adorned with silver epaulettes, high-collared overcoats draped across their shoulders, and peaked caps bearing the insignia of a silver scale—emblematic of balance and order.
Their movements were precise, their expressions solemn.
These were the chosen of Alexander.
Regardless of their diverse origins—be they of noble descent, forsaken mercenaries, or once-oppressed infected—each individual here owed their life to Alexander.
More than mere gratitude, they shared in her vision, in her cause. They had become White Divine Scale.
Alexander was the last to arrive, as always on time.
Her coat swayed softly behind her, ceremonial saber at her side. With calm poise, she took her seat at the head of the table.
"Begin."
The first to speak was Commander Lysara, a Sankta with sun-bleached hair and piercing aquamarine eyes.
She stood, hand resting on the hilt of her pistol.
"We have made significant headway in managing the infected population," she began crisply.
"My squad, operating under strict non-engagement protocols, successfully recovered thirty-three individuals from the southern Ursine borderlands. Despite heightened patrols and the expansion of quarantine zones, we avoided all conflict. No casualties sustained. All recovered are stable."
Alexander offered a slight nod. "Excellent restraint."
Next was Morlen, a hulking Perro with rough features and a mechanical arm.
He stood slowly, his voice deep and measured.
"Material reserves have stabilized," he reported.
"Clothing, bedding, and other essentials are now sufficient to house an additional one hundred and fifty individuals. Thanks to trade routes provided by our allies, logistical bottlenecks have been addressed."
Alexander made a note on her tablet.
"Good. Continuity in comfort fosters resilience."
Then rose Dr. Aelius, a thin, sharply dressed Liberi with spectacles perched on the tip of his beak-like nose.
The chief medical officer cleared his throat.
"Our advancements in treatment protocols are substantial," he said, each word clipped with academic precision.
"With new recruits from Leithanien and the reallocation of operators from Columbia, we now possess both the personnel and means to address late-stage Oripathy."
"Mortality rates have dropped by thirty-four percent. Additionally, infection progression can now be slowed for up to eight months post-exposure."
A quiet murmur of approval ran through the room.
Alexander smiled faintly. "Splendid work, Doctor."
Then her tone shifted. She rested her hands upon the table, leaning forward slightly.
"However, this meeting was not called merely to acknowledge our success."
The room quieted, the air taut with anticipation.
"It is time we take the next step. Thanks to a well-positioned ally in Columbia, we now possess technology capable not only of supporting our infrastructure but also of cloaking our existence—at least partially—from Ursus surveillance."
Her eyes narrowed slightly.
"What we've done thus far is commendable. We have sheltered, healed, and sustained. But it is not enough."
She raised her right hand, and a soft, white light bloomed within her palm. An ethereal glow coalesced into the shape of a curved blade.
"With my unique Arts, I have forged weapons that both amplify the user's own Arts and drastically reduce the risk of Oripathy transmission."
Her gaze shifted to General Reonar, a feline-like Vulpes with scars across his cheeks and eyes like twin embers. He was the commander of White Scale's combat division.
"You know better than anyone the current strength of our forces. Are we capable?"
He stood. "With what we've built, yes. We can match most armed militant groups.
"Depending on who we take on, it ought to be adequate."
Alexander nodded solemnly.
"Indeed."
Alexander rose and used her art to conjure a silver sword, which she then held in a pose.
"I created the White Divine Scale not as a banner of conquest. I designed it to be the pillar of balance that Terra had long lost."
Her voice grew cold, decisive.
"Many of you are aware of Reunion. What they are. They are an impending danger that Chernobog will have to face."
There was a collective silence.
With a snap of her fingers, a figure emerged beside her—a tall, hooded operative wearing the same uniform, face obscured beneath a gleaming white metallic mask.
His voice was distorted, mechanical.
"We have infiltrated three of their outposts. We now possess sufficient intelligence on their tactics, alliances, and their new leader... Taluha Artorius."
Alexander stood, the glow fading from her hand.
"Our goal for the coming month is to completely shut down Reunion and incorporate them into the White Divine scale."
She looked around at each of them in turn.
"The time of survival is over. Now begins the era of reckoning."
***
The warehouse in Chernobog's forsaken outskirts was a crumbling relic, its walls pitted with rust and despair.
The air was thick with the stench of damp concrete and the faint metallic tang of Originium dust.
A single flickering lamp cast uneven shadows across a battered table, where the leaders of the Reunion Movement stood, their voices a tangle of hope, rage, and desperation.
Chernobog, a city scarred by Ursus's neglect, was their crucible, and they were forging a rebellion in its ruins.
Talulah, the Draco whose fire burned both within and without, stood at the head of the table, her presence a volatile mix of resolve and torment.
Her black coat, singed at the hem, hung like a shroud over her trembling frame. Her emerald eyes blazed with conviction, but her voice cracked with the weight of a dream she feared was slipping away.
"Chernobog is soon in our reach," she said, her words sharp with passion.
"The Infected are dying—chained, starved, forsaken. If we don't seize this city, their suffering means nothing."
Her hands gripped the table, nails digging into the wood, as if to anchor the hope threatening to unravel in her chest.
Patriot, the towering Wendigo, stood like a monument to grief, his red eyes heavy with the ghosts of battles lost.
"Ursus's forces are strong and cruel," he rumbled, his voice thick with sorrow.
"Talulah. My warriors can break their lines, but the cost…"
He trailed off, his massive hand clenching, as if crushing the memory of every life he'd failed to save.
"Can you bear it?"
Talulah's breath hitched, her tail lashing.
The question struck like a blade, slicing through her ideals to the raw wound beneath.
"I have to," she whispered, her voice breaking.
"If we stop now, Ursus will bury us all. You've seen what they do to the infected—cages, mines, execution."
Her eyes glistened, but she forced the tears back, her heart a furnace of guilt and determination.
FrostNova, frail and pale, sat hunched across from him, her icy gaze clouded with pain.
Each breath rattled in her chest, a reminder of the Oripathy eating her alive.
"My Yetis will take the northern spire," she murmured, her voice soft but laced with fierce love for her squad.
"We'll freeze their guns, their walls… But every life we take, Talulah, it stays with me." She coughed, a sharp, wrenching sound, and her hand trembled as she wiped blood from her lips.
"I'm running out of time. We all are."
Skullshatterer, young and burning with reckless fury, slammed his fist on the table, his eyes wild with grief and defiance.
"Enough talk of costs!" he shouted, his voice cracking with the pain of a boy who'd lost his sister to Ursus's cruelty.
"We fight, or we die! I'm not letting her sacrifice be for nothing!"
He glared at Crownslayer, who leaned against the wall, her red eyes glinting with barely concealed hurt.
"Unlike some, who'd rather slink away than face the enemy."
Crownslayer's claws twitched, her sneer masking the sting of his words.
"Keep barking, kid," she spat, her voice sharp with wounded pride.
"I've bled for Reunion while you were still crying over your sister. I'll cut their comms, sabotage their machines—but don't you dare call me a coward."
Her heart raced, the ache of her own losses buried beneath layers of venom.
"Silence!" Talulah's shout was a burst of flame, a spark leaping from her hand to char the table's edge. Her chest heaved, her eyes burning with a desperate need to hold them together.
"We're not enemies here!" She cried, her voice raw with anguish.
"The infected are out there, dying in slums, hunted like animals. If we tear ourselves apart, we're handing Ursus the victory!"
Her hands shook, the fire in her veins
threatening to consume her.
She wanted to believe in their cause, in her vision, but doubt gnawed at her soul.
Mephisto, slouched in his chair, giggled—a high, brittle sound that grated against the room's tension.
His green eyes gleamed with twisted delight, but his fingers twitched, betraying the fear he hid beneath his cruelty.
"Oh, Talulah, your speeches are so moving," he mocked, though his voice wavered.
"But what happens when the world turns against us? Ursus,n—they'll all come for us. And I'll be laughing when they break you."
His grin faltered, a flicker of despair in his gaze, as if he knew he was already broken.
Talulah's eyes locked onto him, her heart twisting with disgust and pity. "Do your part, Mephisto," she said, her voice cold but trembling.
"Keep your flock in line. No chaos. Or I swear, I'll burn you to ash myself."
The threat was a plea, a desperate hope that he could be more than the monster he'd become.
The room fell silent, their shared pain a suffocating weight.
Patriot's shoulders sagged, his grief a silent storm.
FrostNova's eyes glistened, her thoughts on her Yetis, her family, who she feared she'd lead to their deaths.
Skullshatterer's fists trembled, his anger a mask for a heart shattered by loss.
Crownslayer turned away, her claws digging into her palms, hiding the wounds no one could see.
And Mephisto's laughter faded, leaving only the hollow echo of a boy lost to his own darkness.
From the far corner of the room, hidden in layers of drifting shadow, a presence observed.
They were clad in a long grey coat bearing the faded insignia of a white scale.
A subtle glimmer of metal beneath their hood betrayed the curve of a mask.
An agent of the White Divine Scale.
No one had noticed them arrive.
No one felt their breath nor heard the shift of their boots against the stone.
But they watched.
And listened.
Every word, every hesitation, every fracture of dissent—was noted.
Alexander's judgment would follow.