"O...li...vi...co...in...come in..."
A faint voice crackled in my ear like a dying spark, static buzzed and warbled just beneath the words, almost drowned out by the ambient silence. I blinked, then reached up—half-conscious—and felt the familiar shape of a transceiver orbment nestled in my right ear.
((Huh...? Oh...))
Despite the haze clouding my thoughts, my body moved on pure inertia as if I was retracing my steps. My fingers brushed the device and pressed to respond.
I didn't think about it, my mind hadn't caught up yet due to shock, the motion was rehearsed, reflexive—like I was a character in a play, hitting my marks on cue without realizing the scene had already started.
""This is Oblivion. Do you have a visual on the target?""
The words spilled out smooth, practiced—my voice steady even though the inside of my skull felt scrambled. I waited for a reply, but only received more distortion in return.
"...C...in...obli...please...res..."
The connection was too degraded. The line faltered and faded, like a breath trying to reach me from underwater.
((I remember this...))
The moment clicked into place, as my memories bubbled up to the forefront.
((She was hiding in a region with a dense concentration of runestone ores. The ambient magical energy in the area disrupted all long-distance communication—especially transmissions involving rune-based technology such as these orbments. It took me almost a full month to organize a recon team and finally triangulate her signal))
I remembered it like it was yesterday, how it all went down.
((Though if I'm being honest, the reason she was found was only half because I knew her well enough to know how to corner her. The other half was because...she wanted to be found. She was waiting for me...))
I could recall every detail of that mission. But even knowing it, watching it unfold now from behind the glass of memory was still surreal. I wasn't just remembering—I was inside it.
That's when the truth sank in.
((This isn't an illusion nor a simple sharing of extrasensory magic. The details, the sensations—they're too precise, too tactile. Retro's used [Retrocognition] but not just to give me a vision of what has already transpired. He's pulled both of us back—into the past. Mentally, at least))
It wasn't time travel in the physical sense. But mentally? This was a dive into a locked vault of our collective reccollection of these events—reopened with almost surgical precision.
I was back in it, WE were back in it.
((You really chose this day, huh, Retro? Of all moments…you brought us back to Operation: Daybreak...))
I directed the thought toward him, wherever—or whenever—he was hiding. The day we hunted down and killed our master. That singular, irreversible moment. And now I was reliving it through borrowed eyes, trapped in my own body like a puppet to memory.
((What in Gehenna did you give up to make your [Retrocognition] do this? What kind of backlash are you going to face once the effect ends? Or... did you consume something from this dungeon—something rare—to temporarily push your ability further?))
I directed the question toward Retro in my mind, even though I knew he wouldn't answer.
What was happening now could only mean one thing: he paid a price. The [Rule of Providence] ensured it. The further one reached with magic—the more complex or potent the effect—the steeper the cost. To recreate this moment so vividly and drag both of us back into it? He must've offered something in return: a sacrifice, a condition, an anchor to amplify the spell's reach.
Nothing came for free. Not in this world.
((So what was it, Retro...? Your voice? Your sight? Your sanity...?))
I didn't know yet. But I'd find out.
And when I did, I'd know just how far he was willing to go to unearth the past we buried.
What was happening now could only mean one thing: he paid a price. The [Rule of Providence] ensured it. The further one reached with magic—the more complex or potent the effect—the steeper the cost. To recreate this moment so vividly and drag both of us back into it? He must've offered something in return: a sacrifice, a condition, an anchor to amplify the spell's reach.
Nothing came for free. Not in this world...
((Retro's [Retrocognition] was never this refined. The visions it granted was always personal to him. Even when he accessed someone else's memories, he could only view them as an external observer, which could sometimes lead to him missing key pieces or contextual nuance. But this...?))
This was something else entirely.
((This is perfect. A seamless recreation of events. No gaps, no inconsistencies. And I'm not just seeing it—I'm in it, from a my very own perspective. Which means...He has to be here too, somewhere. That was the only way this vision could be flawless. Retro isn't just showing me the past. He'd embedded himself in it alongside me))
I made logical inferences based on my knowledge of magic and how Retro's abilities worked.
""Hmm...communications still isn't up. Guess I'll send up a flare to signal that I haven't found anything here""
I heard myself say the line. Voice calm, composed, procedural. The words tumbled out just as they had all those years ago.
And I realized, with quiet dread that I had no control. At least not right now...
((I can't move my own body consciously...makes sense. This is just a replay of events after all, you can't interfere with what has already passed))
My body moved like a marionette on strings already tied down by the past. I was just the passenger now, a silent observer stuck watching my own history play out frame by frame.
((Right, we were using special flashes that communicated different things depending on the light signal. The light from theses flares couldn't be seen by anyone not using extrasensory skills or wearing equipment with hyperspectral capabilities. Which meant that master couldn't see it from afar, her extrasensory abilities lacked that kind of range and she can't have access to Executerii equipment after going rogue for this long))
I moved to pull out a special flare gun from my pockets made of a material similar to obsidian in appearance before pointing it into the air and pulling the trigger.
*Click!*
Aside from the clicking of the firing pin, no audible sound was heard and neither was there any visible light from the flare either but I knew that I had successfully sent the flare and someone would've seen it.
""At least the search perimeter's shrinking…""
The words left my lips in a low mutter—well, my past self's lips. A quiet observation made only after confirming no hostile ears were nearby.
((I remember thinking we were close…that it was only a matter of time if we kept sweeping at this pace))
The memory stirred as I watched myself leap into the canopy, navigating branch to branch with fluid precision, zeroing in on a pre-marked location.
((What is Mimesis and Retro doing? The relay grid was supposed to be online an hour ago. Don't tell me they've been attacked...No—unlikely. Master wouldn't take the initiative here, not with her waning strength. The ambient interference here must be worse than expected))
That had been my thought at the time. I recalled it clearly—my past self taking into account the possibilities as the forest blurred past.
((That's right...I remember the plan was to establish multiple relay nodes to bypass the interference. I split our forces into tactical fireteams of 4 to 6, fanning out for recon. While I myself operated solo, Retro and Mimesis on the other hand were assigned to construct the relay grid. Once active, it would reestablish our comms despite the magical distortion in the are))
Operation: Daybreak. Every detail returned with painful clarity. Given the threat level of our target, the Maestro deployed nearly 60% of our black ops assets—an unprecedented commitment. Among them were GEN 7 operatives like myself, Retro, and Mimesis, supported by 56 other agents of the special ops division.
((We couldn't afford mistakes. Not with her as our quarry...))
The thought alone twisted something cold in my chest. Her appearance flickered at the edge of my mind—calm, elegant, yet terrifyingly unrelenting.
An Eastern woman with a well built physique and raven black hair. The person who trained me and Retro in swordsmanship.
A former member of the Executerii's 12 enforcers...
...as well as former director of the Mekhanite special operations division.
Lady Yuametsu.
Callsign: Twilight.
"Oblivion, come in"
The comms crackled to life mid-movement, just as I leapt from one branch to the next. The voice that came through was unmistakable.
((Retro...))
If I could speak freely, I'd have spat his name out like venom.
((Are you stuck like I am—riding along in your past self's body? Or are you in control?))
The question gnawed at me. If he was steering his own actions, then I was at a disadvantage. This entire vision was his construct. Which meant only he knew the limits and rules.
My past self came to a stop on a sturdy branch, hand rising automatically to press the transceiver orbment against my ear.
""Loud and clear. What took you so long?""
The voice that left my lips was calm, clipped—standard protocol. But I remembered the irritation simmering beneath it.
"Interference was worse than expected. What's your 20?"
""En route to point Zeta. 200 Scales out""
"Scratch that. New intel just came in. Target confirmed—building complex, 300 Scales northeast of point Delta"
((...That matches exactly how it went...))
I narrowed my thoughts, watching from behind my own eyes. Retro was feeding me lines from memory, but I still couldn't tell whether he was improvising…or orchestrating.
""Confirmation?""
My past voice didn't waver. Seeking verify the information.
"Affirmative. Team 6 made visual contact at 0830. They've maintained overwatch since"
""Understood. Issue the alert. Have all teams converge and establish perimeter lockdown. Block off all escape routes, do not engage yet. Maintain distance and avoid entering her instant kill zone at all cost""
"Copy. Retro out"
The line went dead.
Without hesitation, my body pivoted and surged forward—back toward the convergence point. The mission parameters had just changed. Again.
((What are you planning, Retro...?))
Still trapped as a passenger, I braced myself. This wasn't just recollection. It was a setup. And I had no idea where it would lead.
Soon, I arrived at a natural vantage point—an elevated outcrop nestled high in the canopy of a ridge's southern slope. The foliage here was dense, giving me ample cover while still offering a clean line of sight toward the compound nestled below.
((There it is...just like I remembered it))
The structure stood half-swallowed by the forest. A concrete relic buried under moss and age, once it seemd like it used to be a building of some kind, but now it's nothing but a dilapidated ruin. From this angle, I could see the narrow entrance partially covered by overgrowth, a single access point flanked by blind spots and natural chokeholds.
My eyes flicked across the treeline encircling it.
((They're moving into position...))
Below, shadows shifted between trees with eerie precision—agents of the spec ops division. 56 operatives divided into different fireteams, fanning out along a 360-degree perimeter. Each squad knew their role: suppress, support, or eliminate. Communication remained silent. No radio chatter. Only hand signs and flashes from hyperspectral lenses.
They moved like wolves, quiet and hungry.
From up here, I could see everything moving into place.
""No alarms triggered yet. She either hasn't noticed…or she's waiting for the right moment""
My past self said, observing the situation closely.
((It's the latter...she'll be greeting you right after you fire the first shot. She's always been the cocky type))
The thought surfaced without hesitation. I already knew how this would play out, it has already happened for me after all.
Then, a voice came through the transceiver in my ear:
"All teams in position. Perimeter has been established, Field Commander. Awaiting further orders"
My past self answered immediately, with zero hesitation.
""Flatten the structure—flush her out. Maintain distance from target at all costs, anyone within a 5 Scale radius of her is automatically considered KIA. Do not engage in close-quarters unless no other option remains. Once she's out in the open, use coordinated ranged strikes. If range options are not possible use hit and run tactics. Keep pressure—wear her down. We don't need any heroes here unless you're confident you can take the former director down in a fight""
I gave clear and concise instructions to the force.
"Understood. Fireteam 3 preparing bombardment"
((Haaa~ even though I know how this ends. Watching it begin again is...))
I felt it all again—the stillness before the chaos, the tension in the air.
*Flash! Crackle!*
A volley of light ignited across the northern tree line—each one a brilliant orb, glowing with the intensity of miniature suns.
*Whoop—fwooosh!*
In perfect synchronicity, the fireballs surged skyward—trailing arcs of burning Mana—before curving down like guided munitions zeroing in on their mark.
They weren't just flares—they were weapons. [Fireball] spells, classic in design but enhanced for battlefield bombardment. Less like a normal spell and more like magical artillery.
Then came impact.
*KRACK—BOOOOM!*
A violent chain of explosions tore through the compound.
The structure didn't collapse—it detonated. A geyser of flame, shrapnel, and pulverized stone erupted upward as if the earth itself had spat it out. The walls vaporized in the first instant. The roof blew apart in molten chunks. Everything that had once been a building was now an expanding storm of fire and debris.
For a moment, it looked like a volcano had erupted beneath it—violent, primal, and final.
No survivors could've stood in the heart of that blast.
And yet…
Even though I was stationed far from the others—hidden in the canopy high above—I could feel it. That collective stillness, every operative here was holding their breath.
Because this strike wasn't meant to kill her.
If it were that easy, she wouldn't be one of the "12".
*Whoosh—*
A gentle breeze rolled through the clearing.
And in defiance of all logic, the inferno collapsed in on itself. One second, the compound was an open furnace; the next, it was a smoking crater. The flames didn't burn out—they were snuffed, as if erased by an unseen hand.
Total suppression with no lingering sparks, just silence and smoke.
""Figures...you always did have a flair for the dramatics, Master...""
My past self muttered, low and bitter, eyes fixed on the charred ruin.
He knew, just like I did back then, that this wasn't over. No—this was her reply. A warning. Her way of telling us she was still very much alive. And that contrary to our hopes, we were the hunted, not the hunters...
((...))
Meanwhile, I remained silent. Not because I had nothing to comment on but because I didn't feel like doing it any longer.
"Contact!"
A clipped voice crackled through the transceiver. Immediate, urgent.
She had appeared.
*Step…step...* *Clack-clack*
The sound of her sandals tapping against charred stone echoed unnaturally loud through the clearing—each step deliberate, slow, and eerily calm.
From the heart of the ruined blast zone, a figure emerged.
Ash drifted around her like falling snow, carried by the still-settling heat of the detonations. She walked through it untouched, unbothered, almost radiant against the smoke-stained sky.
In her right hand, she casually spun a massive crimson odachi, the blade long and slightly curved, its polished surface etched with intricate engravings that resembled countless watching eyes—some half-closed, others wide open. The metal gleamed like fresh blood, humming with residual heat as she let it rest across her shoulders with a single practiced swing.
"Haa...hahaha..."
The laughter was soft—almost sweet. But it rolled across the treeline like quiet thunder.
""!!!""
Even from my distant vantage point, I heard it clearly. So did every agent in the perimeter. It wasn't just sound—it was presence. A suffocating weight pressing down on us, creeping into our ears, our lungs, our bones.
"Haaaa..."
She smiled, a slow, nostalgic smile that didn't reach her eyes.
Draped across her form was an elaborate black, gold, and white yukata, stitched in elegant layers that defied the battlefield's grime, not a single mote of dust had marred the outfit's beautiful fabric. Said fabric shimmered faintly with what I assume are protective enchantments, its long sleeves flowing like trailing banners of the night sky itself. Embroidered across the surface were hand-sewn depictions of the the red spider lily, interwoven with a coiled serpent that slithered endlessly from one fold to the next. It was like death and rebirth woven into silk.
Her raven-black hair was untied and hung loosely down her back like a bribe's veil, strands drifting in the breeze like ink spilled across porcelain.
And those eyes...serene, ancient, unblinking, eyes that had watched countless operations unfold, eyes that had trained us.
"Heh...my sweet little hatchlings..."
She began, voice warm, affectionate, almost motherly—as she wiped a single amused tear from the corner of her lashes.
"Were you that frightened of little old me?"
Her tone twisted into something mocking, yet never lost that soft cadence.
"To bring all this...just to swarm one lady? You must be rather desperate. But then again I suppose trying to avoid fighting me in an enclosed space is not a half bad plan"
She looked around—not at the trees or the soldiers in hiding, but through them. She seemed to see through us despite everyone in this operation being a stealth specialist.
She wasn't asking for answers. She was enjoying the tension, as if the metaphorical noose around her neck was an amusing necklace.
""Engage as planned…grind her down!""
My past self's voice was calm, but nontheless urgent. I issued the order like pulling a trigger.
*Whrrrmmm…*
All around her, the forest lit up as Mana satuerated the air, foretelling of the destruction that is about to commence.
*Zzzap!* *Crack!* *Whhhrr!* *Tshhh!*
Dozens of spells ignited the clearing. Arcs of lightning forked down like divine punishment. Razorwind gusts howled through the trees, carving bark from trunks. Double sided spears formed into the shape of snowflakes, conjured in midair, rained down like glass shrapnel, while shimmering bolts of flame curled like loongs from every angle.
The entire clearing became a strikezone for sustained elemental bombardment.
56 elite agents opened fire from every direction—each spell overlapping the next in a perfectly coordinated kill-zone meant to overwhelm her with rapid force and hopefully destroy her in one coordinated strike.
It was maelstrom of light and sound, a veritable storm made of magic.
But it meant nothing...
Because…
*Schink!* *Shhhrrrk!* *Crack-KLANG!*
With no more than a lazy flick of her wrist, master's crimson blade blurred through the air—once, twice, thrice.
And the entire barrage—
*...*
—collapsed into silence.
Sharp blades of wind disipated, fireballs vanished out of the air, bolts of lightning unraveled at the seams, shards of ice evaporated mid-flight.
As if nothing had ever been there to begin with.
The forest stood still. The air itself felt like it had been sliced apart and stitched shut again. Like reality had been denied.
""...""
Even then—despite how many times I'd witnessed it, despite the hours she'd spent drilling it into me—I still found it unreal. Every time she performed it, it left me breathless. A display that felt less like swordsmanship and more like divine intervention and I don't even believe in the divine.
(([Shadowless One Blade, 4th Form: unseen severance]...))
She didn't block the spells, neither did she deflect or overpower them, she severed their Mana flow, she somehow physically slashed a non-corporeal flow of energy.
(("Imbuing your Prana into the blade and then guide the slash towards the essence of the formulae your opponents put into the spell by reading their Mana signature"...honestly it sounds absurd. But for some reason it always made sense coming out of her mouth))
I thought, remembering her words describing the 4th form of the shadowless one blade school.
And then—she moved.
"..."
In one breathless instant, she was gone from the clearing.
The next, she was in the trees.
*SHNK!*
"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHH!!!!"
""...""
A wet and gurgling scream came rhough my transceiver, it was like I was right there listening in as the one screaming took his last breath.
*THUMP!*
I heard the sound of a body hitting the ground on the other side.
"AAGH!"
"She's in the canopy—moving too fast—"
"Southwest flank compromised—damn it I can't see—"
"She's cutting through teams 4 and 7 like—"
"Stay in formation! Keep your spacing—she's baiting you into clustering—!"
*SHHHK—*
"AAAAAAGHH!"
*CRACK!*
Panic was setting in. I could hear it through the comms—through the screams, the frenzied breathing, the confusion.
She was systematically culling them in a precise and timely manner.
A dance of death, choreographed by the very woman who had trained most of us in the art of murder.
And we—most of us trained by this same woman—were little more than rehearsal dummies now.
From my perch in the canopy, I could see flashes of motion below. A glint of steel, a smear of blood, then nothing.
((It should be about time...))
I thought, knowing exactly what came next, if this vision that Retro has trapped me in really was a one-to-one recontruction of the past.
""Teams 3 and 5, flank her position and lay down suppressive fire! Team 6, provide support from the rear! Anyone from Teams 4 and 7 still alive, fall back immediately and regroup! Team 2, prepare to cast down large-scale bombardment, coordinate casting vectors!""
"Roger!"
"Understood!"
"Copy that!"
Orders fired through the comms like bullets, answered by crisp, disciplined responses.
""Team 1, maintain reserve positio—""
My past self stopped mid-sentence.
Through the canopy, a shape darted into view—fast, low, and unmistakable.
""Tch—Retro?!""
A lone figure was weaving through the treetops, moving with urgent, reckless speed toward the blast zone.
""Team 1, stand down! You were to remain in reserves until I gave the signal!""
I patched directly to his channel.
"...No! We're the only ones who can keep her pinned in close quarters. I'm not letting the rest die stalling for time—we end this now!"
His voice crackled with emotion.
""That wasn't the plan, Retro! Pull back—now!""
"..."
No reply.
Only silence and the rustle of wind in the leaves.
""Haaaah…goddess damn it...""
My past self exhaled, already knowing it was useless. Retro wasn't going to listen.
((He was being reckless…))
I remembered the frustration clearly, the cold knot of realization forming in my gut even as the battle escalated.
((I didn't account for how personal this was to him. Mimesis hadn't been cleared for a frontline engagement against her, his abilities were still too green at the time. Retro left him behind, charging in alone...))
I thought, remembering what had happened.
((The original strategy was clear: exhaust her first. Let the non-GEN 7 operatives grind her down—chip away at her stamina, her patience. Then we would jump in and strike as a trio))
It was a plan that took her incredible abilities into consideration, with contingencies and backup plans already thought out.
(("Any combatant, no matter how skilled, is most vulnerable the moment they think the battle is over"))
Those were her very own lessons, I wanted to make use of them.
And now, Retro was throwing that lesson away—rushing headlong into the fray without any regard for orders.
((Maybe him going rogue was inevitable...))
The thought surfaced like a half-buried truth I'd refused to acknowledge until now.
Even back then, I must've known, at least subconsciously. Some part of me had already predicted that Retro would one day betray the organization like he did in the present.
""Haaaa~""
A sigh escaped my past self, low and resigned.
""Tch…guess I'll just have to readjust""
Just like that, the plan shifted slightly due to Retro's actions.
""Mimesis, hold position. Do not engage, no matter what happens. That's an order""
I keyed into the comms and issued the directive clearly.
"..."
There was a beat of silence.
"Umm..."
No protest. Just that familiar quiet murmur from Mimesis—his way of confirming without words. As always, subtle, compliant, detached.
""I'm moving in for a closer look. Adjusting field oversight""
My past self crouched low, brushing leaves aside as he prepared to descend from the perch.
""I'll improvise as necessary...""
No further commentary nor reassurances were neccessary.
Just the sound of foliage shifting and muscle tension coiling into motion as I jumped down below.
I dashed between treetops before, the scenery blurring at the edges as I sped through the jungle.
It wasn't long before I found myself on a particular tree higher than the rest, just 90 Scales out from where the most intense fighting was taking place. From here, the battlefield opened like a stage—chaos unfolding in brutal, staggering detail.
((There she is—!))
I spotted my master in the distance.
A blur of black, gold, and white weaving between the trees like a phantom of death. Her yukata rippled behind her like a torn banner, her crimson odachi already slick with blood, the engraved eyes on its surface seeming to blink with every motion.
"Damn it! GET AWAY!"
One of the remaining operatives from Team 7—poor soul—scrambled backward, firing off a panicked spell from his palm.
*Zzrap!*
A bolt of arclight screamed toward her.
*Shff!*
"Tsk...I taught you children better than that!"
With a bloodthirsty grin, she sidestepped it before the cast was complete and, in the same breath, dashed forward and bisected him diagonally from hip to shoulder.
*SHHLCK!*
The air split along with him. No scream—just a wet gasp and two halves of a man dropping to the forest floor in a smear of color and steam.
""Tch—! GAAAAAAAAAH!!""
A thunderous roar broke through the trees as another attacker leapt in—this one from Team 4.
A therianthrope. Seven feet tall, fur bristling like armor. His claws were thick as daggers, and his tail thrashed like a whip. He descended from above with raw animal fury, spinning into a downward slam.
*BOOOM!*
The ground where master stood shattered, a crater blasting open beneath the weight of the strike. Trees rocked. Dust flew. The air trembled.
""I told them to avoid close quarters at all costs!""
My past self muttered, knowing that it was futile.
*Shing!*
A flash of white appeared behind his head, right above him.
She had flipped upward as he came down, graceful as a crane in flight, her yukata fluttering above the blast wave like silk caught in an updraft. Her blade trailed behind her in a streak of crimson.
Before the therianthrope even realized she was airborne—
*SHHING!*
A clean, horizontal stroke severed his head in mid-air. Blood arced like a dark halo.
*Thmp!*
His massive body collapsed into the wreckage below, still twitching, tail coiling and uncurling like it couldn't accept death had already come.
Master landed soundlessly behind the ruin she created, her blade resting once more across her shoulders, steaming gently. Not a strand of hair was out of place, she made it looked so easy.
And then—
*Thud…* *Thud…* *THUD—!*
Another figure burst through the treeline, kicking off the bark with sheer force.
((Retro...))
He moved fast—too fast for any of the support teams to track.
The wind behind him parted as he arrived in a streak of momentum, sword drawn, mana-laced boots leaving shockwaves with every landing.
He was at her in moments, blade drawn back, eyes locked on his target.
*CLAAANG!*
Their weapons clashed in a flash of light.
And just like that—the real fight had finally begun.