The streets of C-Lass were unusually loud.
Vendors shouted through static-filled megaphones, synthetic animals barked through alley shadows, and the glowing veins of the city pulsed under the late afternoon haze. But even in the chaos, Crick walked in silence, his jaw clenched, hands balled into fists, and feet pounding faster than Tochi could keep up with.
Tochi wiped sweat from his brow. "Crick! Slow down. What's the hurry?"
Crick didn't answer. He just shoved through a crowd of colorfully dressed scavengers and turned into a tight corner that led toward the edge of the city.
Tochi followed.
And then the smell hit him.
Smoke. Burnt copper. Flesh.
He stopped just at the turn. His eyes widened.
The homeless shelter, the same place Crick had shown him days ago—the small, dilapidated structure tucked behind the grand Citadel of the Sun—was no more. What remained were scorched beams, blackened stone, and flickering blue fire that refused to die. Emergency drones hovered lazily above, scanning what was left of the dead.
Tochi stepped closer, covering his nose.
Crick dropped to his knees.
"No…" Crick's voice cracked like old glass. "No. No. No."
"Tochi," he rasped, turning toward him, eyes bloodshot, "they were just kids. Just kids…"
Tochi remained silent.
He'd seen things before. Accidents. Shootings. Lagos wasn't soft. But this—this was different. This was too targeted, too brutal.
A woman with metallic braids stood by a broken lamp post, her eyes dimmed with despair. Crick stumbled toward her.
"Who did this? Who did this!?"
The woman didn't flinch. She simply held out a crumpled piece of polymer paper. Crick snatched it.
His hands trembled as he unfolded the printout.
It was a poster—one of the digital-pinned types the houses used for city-wide scans. And in the center of it was a face.
Tochi's face.
But below it, the name read:
WANTED – LUCIEN ADREK
"Adrek?" Tochi blinked.
Crick's lips parted in horror, eyes bouncing between the poster and his friend.
Then—to Tochi's confusion—Crick let out a choked, almost hysterical laugh.
"Well, sh*t."
Tochi stepped forward. "What? That's not me."
"It is," Crick whispered. "You... you really didn't know?"
Tochi looked him dead in the eyes. "Know what?"
Crick didn't answer at first. He just turned back toward the flames, the weight of the moment pressing down like gravity had doubled. A thousand pieces were trying to fit together in his head, none of them shaped right.
He remembered the first moment he'd found Tochi passed out in that alley. The strange clothes. The absence of Nano signature. The weird way he asked about everything, as if none of it existed before.
And now this.
Lucien Adrek.
A highborn name. From House Adrek. One of the Mid-Class Lords who ruled the entire city.
Tochi looked at the picture again. "That's not me."
"It's your face," Crick said.
"Well, I'm not Lucien, alright? My name's Tochi. I come from a place called Lagos. Nigeria. I just—this isn't my world."
Crick looked at him, breathless.
"Then where's he?"
Tochi frowned.
"The real Lucien."
Tochi couldn't answer. Because deep down, something he'd been ignoring since his arrival began to tighten around his chest like a steel band. A truth he didn't want to confront.
Crick didn't ask again. He shook his head. "Whatever this is, it's above me. But we gotta move. Now."
"Wait—are you mad at me?" Tochi asked.
"I don't know yet," Crick said honestly. "But I know they'll kill you before I figure it out. So let's run."
They didn't argue after that.
They sprinted through the side alleys of C-Lass. Past rusted steel statues of the Twelve Priests, past half-functional bridges powered by flickering solar engines, and into the warren of underground veins that pulsed beneath the Mid-Class zones.
Behind them, the hologram with the face of Lucien Adrek flickered across several walls, lighting up the city like an omen.
Tochi's own image was chasing him.
His own name was not his.
The underground breathed with metal lungs.
Pipes hissed. Gears rotated behind walls too rusted to see. The only light came from broken conduits overhead, spitting faint sparks that painted the corridor in flashes of copper and shadow. The old subway system hadn't been used for trains in decades, but its tunnels were now veins for the unwanted—those like Lucien and Crick.
Lucien sat against a support beam, knees drawn to his chest, fingers locked tight like he was holding himself together.
Crick paced in front of him, cloak fluttering in the artificial wind bleeding from air vents. He hadn't spoken since they dropped through the sewer grate two blocks from the burnt remains of the shelter.
The silence was loud.
Lucien finally broke it.
"I need to tell you something."
Crick didn't stop pacing, but he tilted his head. "Yeah?"
Lucien's voice was low, but not weak. "I don't know who I am."
Crick scoffed, not out of mockery, but disbelief. "Could've fooled me. You look exactly like the House heir that just turned a shelter into charcoal."
"I'm not Lucien Adrek."
Crick stopped pacing now. Turned. His eyes narrowed.
Lucien continued. "The name that came to me first—Tochi—I thought it was mine. But something's wrong. I kept saying I'm from Nigeria, from Earth. But I don't remember the streets. Not clearly. I don't remember people's names. Or my mother's voice. The only thing I have are these flashes. Feelings. Not facts."
Crick crossed his arms. "So you're saying you've been lying?"
Lucien shook his head. "No. I believed it. I still believe it. But... what if those memories aren't mine? What if I'm someone else entirely? Maybe Lucien was real. Maybe I replaced him. Or maybe... maybe I'm him, just broken."
Crick's expression shifted. Confusion faded into contemplation.
"Why are you telling me this now?" he asked.
Lucien looked up. "Because I need help. And because I promised to help you too."
He uncurled his fingers. "You want revenge for what they did. I want answers. Maybe if I get my memory back, I'll know what part I played—if any. And if I didn't do this, I'll help you burn them down."
The crackle of a loose wire sparked near Crick's head. He flinched, stepped back.
Lucien leaned into the light and whispered, "Help me find out who I am. In return, I'll help you destroy House Adrek."
Crick stared at him for a long time. His jaw clenched. His breath shallow.
Then he crouched beside Lucien, still cautious, still holding a thousand questions behind his eyes. But his tone softened.
"I saw the way you looked when we found the shelter. That wasn't fake. And the way you grabbed that little girl's toy from the fire like it mattered…" He exhaled slowly. "Lucien or Tochi or whatever your name is—you felt that."
Lucien nodded.
Crick extended his hand.
"Alright," he said. "We find your truth. Then we break theirs."
Lucien hesitated for only a second before shaking it.
The stone path cracked beneath Lucien's bare feet as he and Crick ascended the slope toward the Church of All Suns. Grey was alive behind them—a cacophony of neon streets, drifting nano-signs, and whispering alleys. But up here, the air was clearer. Heavier too. Not with pollution, but with belief. The kind that tasted like centuries.
The cathedral stood like a crown of firelight carved from gold and ivory. Arched windows glittered with solar patterns, and at the very top, a burning crest of the Sun God—Licht—glowed with radiant energy, pulsing faintly as if alive. Guards in robes of white and ember flanked the stairs, weapons etched with runes of judgment resting beside them.
"You sure about this?" Lucien muttered, eyeing the enormous bronze door.
Crick nodded. "If anyone knows how to uncover memories—or secrets—it's the clergy. Epsilon's different from the rest. He questions things."
Lucien raised a brow. "A heretical priest?"
Crick shrugged. "A curious one."
They stepped into the sanctuary.
It was nothing like the grim temples Lucien had known. Here, sunlight bled through stained glass and danced on polished marble floors. Golden rings hovered mid-air, rotating slowly, humming like a choir in sleep. Every breath Lucien took tasted warm, metallic, sanctified.
The center of the church held a raised platform—an altar upon which rested a single artifact: a spear bound in divine silk, stained with soot and flame.
The Spear of Atrocities.
Lucien didn't know how he knew its name, but the moment his eyes landed on it, he did. The weapon was ancient. Alive. Forged in a time when sins were not forgiven, only purged.
A figure approached from the far corridor. Young, tall, clad in layered robes that shimmered with mirrored solar panels. His skin was pale gold, his hair jet black, and his eyes burned with strange intensity—like they had seen both glory and collapse.
Crick stepped forward, lowering his head. "Epsilon."
The priest looked between them. "Crick. I heard what happened at the shelter. I'm sorry."
Crick's jaw tightened. "You heard right. It's why we're here."
Lucien stood still, feeling the air thicken as Epsilon turned his gaze toward him.
"You're the one they're calling Lucien Adrek, aren't you?"
Lucien returned the stare. "So I'm told."
"I don't like nobles," Epsilon said. "They pray with lips that lie."
Lucien exhaled slowly. "I'm not a noble. At least... not in the way you think."
Epsilon stepped forward. "Then why is the blood in your veins reacting to that?" He pointed toward the Spear of Atrocities. "You've got the mark, whether you remember it or not."
Lucien looked at his palm—just a palm. But the spear seemed to hum louder as he got closer, like it knew him.
"We need your help," Crick said. "Something happened to him. He lost his memories—or had them replaced. We need to find out what he did… or who he really is."
Epsilon circled them once, thoughtfully. "And what if what he did can't be forgiven?"
Lucien spoke before Crick could. "Then I'll atone. But I won't let myself be hunted for sins I don't remember. Help me know the truth first."
Epsilon's expression remained unreadable. Then, with a wave of his hand, the golden rings floating above the altar descended, one by one. Each ring burned slightly different shades—amber, gold, red, and white.
"They're memory catalysts. Instruments of Licht. They strip away the illusions we build for ourselves."
Lucien hesitated. "Will it hurt?"
"Truth always does."
Crick placed a hand on Lucien's shoulder. "We're with you."
Lucien stepped forward, toward the altar.
As he drew closer, the spear thrummed with intensity. One of the rings hovered to his forehead, brushing lightly against his skin.
In that moment—
A flash of white. Screams. A sigil burning into flesh. A woman crying. Blood soaking into golden robes.
Lucien stumbled back, gasping, eyes wide.
"What did you see?" Epsilon asked, voice sharp.
Lucien shook his head. "Not enough. Just... fragments."
Epsilon nodded. "It's buried deep. But it's in you. Whatever happened—whatever you did—it's there."
"I need to know," Lucien said, his voice raw.
"Then you'll need time," Epsilon replied. "And safety. The House of Adrek won't stop. They know you're alive."
Lucien looked to Crick, who gave a subtle nod.
"We'll stay low. Plan our next move."
Epsilon reached into his robe and handed Lucien a small token—a sun-shaped coin etched with the spear. "This will grant you passage through the outer wards. Use it if you're ever cornered."
Lucien took it carefully, pocketing the relic. The metal was cold—but not empty.
"We'll meet again," Epsilon said, turning back toward the altar. "But remember: the deeper you dig into who you were… the more dangerous who you are might become."
As Lucien and Crick stepped into the light outside, the doors of the Church closed behind them with a gentle hiss.
The streets of Grey hadn't changed—but Lucien had.
And House Adrek would soon learn that their sins had not been buried deep enough.