Niero dreamed—but it wasn't his dream.
The world came to him through borrowed eyes, vision fractured and crawling with static, as if the one he was seeing through perceived reality like a broken signal. Shapes blurred at the edges, colors bleeding into one another, yet the feeling was unmistakably real.
A corridor stretched ahead, long and dim, its walls humming softly with unseen machinery. Cold metal, faint lights embedded along the floor, the unmistakable interior of a spaceship drifting somewhere far from home.
Beside "him" walked Greedmonger.
She wasn't laughing this time.
Her steps were slow, deliberate, boots echoing against steel as she spoke about what needed to be done.
About a point of no return—a line already crossed the moment they chose to keep moving forward.
"This is it," she said lightly, yet her voice carried weight. "No resets. No second chances."
She glanced sideways, her usual reckless grin flickering—but not quite forming.
"You'll need a lot of luck to end this."
Then she scoffed softly, shaking her head. "Not that you believe in luck."
For a moment, she stopped walking.
Her eyes met "his," sharp and honest beneath all the bravado. "But even so," she continued, quieter now, "I'd jump into hell with you. No hesitation."
There was no response from "him." Only the steady forward motion of borrowed footsteps.
Greedmonger sighed, then reached into her armor and flicked a gold-ornamented coin into the air. It spun once, twice—catching the dim corridor light like a falling star—before she caught it and tossed it toward him.
"Here," she said, forcing a smile. "For good luck."
The coin struck his palm.
And the dream shattered.
-
But the dream did not end.
Niero thought he had woken—thought the darkness would peel away, thought the world would return.
It didn't.
The corridor stretched on. Longer. Tighter. The walls had crept closer, inch by inch, while he wasn't looking. The soft hum of machinery now throbbed like a heartbeat—uneven, too loud. The overhead lights flickered, stuttering between clarity and shadow, carving the hallway into fractured fragments of reality.
At the far end, something waited. Something wrong.
A humanoid shape. Black. Featureless. Nothing human beyond a crude silhouette. Two white dots marked where eyes should be—staring, unblinking, drilling into him.
Silence swallowed the corridor.
No footsteps. No hum. No air.
And then—
The lights shattered. Flashing, flickering, each pulse longer than the last.
He blinked.
The figure was closer.
Closer than it should have been.
The lights snapped off entirely.
Then—
They snapped back.
And it was right there.
Distance vanished. The air ripped apart with the force of its approach. Those hollow eyes—white, burning—seared into Niero's mind.
He couldn't scream. Couldn't move. Couldn't even think.
He didn't even have time to scream inside the dream—
-
[ < PRESENT > March 15th, 2087 (Morning) | Niero's bedroom > Maison Bella Cafe > Sector 13-05 > Mega Ark-City 01: Radiant City > Earth ]
"AAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRGGHH!!!!!!!"
He screamed awake.
Niero jolted upright in his bed, a sharp cry tearing from his throat. Cold sweat soaked his shirt, his hands shaking as his heart slammed violently against his ribs, each beat screaming that he was alive. His room was dark, familiar, real—but the fear clung to him like a second skin.
The hallway was gone.
The eyes were not.
They lingered in his mind, burned into the back of his vision as he gasped for breath, chest heaving, fingers digging into his sheets as if anchoring himself to reality.
The nightmare is different somehow.
A strange dream about Greedmonger, and that... nightmare...that silhouette figure...
Whatever that was—
It hadn't felt like a dream.
It felt like something else...
A vision of sort?
If it is-
then what does it meant.
Niero's body trembled as he tried to steady himself, chest still hammering from the nightmare. His messy bedroom, cluttered with clothes, books, and odd trinkets, felt impossibly safe compared to the corridor of shadows and hollow eyes that had haunted him moments ago.
But relief was fleeting.
Rapid footsteps echoed from the hallway outside—small, hurried, and insistent. Niero's stomach clenched. Daisy. She must have heard his scream. Probably already enacting her self-declared "Distressed Brother Protocol" or whatever it was called, barreling toward his room to wrap him in her frantic hugs and futile attempts to calm him down.
Before she could burst through, adrenaline surged through him. Niero rolled off the bed in one swift motion, pressing his back against the door. His hands slammed against the wood, holding it shut with all his strength.
"Stay out!" he hissed under his breath, voice tight with urgency.
He couldn't explain the terror, not even to Daisy—and he refused to risk her seeing the shadows still clinging to his mind.
Outside, the footsteps faltered, a pause of confusion and worry. Niero's heart thudded violently, every nerve screaming, as he pressed his forehead against the door, trying to reclaim calm, trying to convince himself he was truly safe this time.
Daisy's small voice crept through the door, tinged with worry.
"Big bro… did that pesky nightmare scare you again?"
Niero took a slow breath, chest still tight from the remnants of panic. He leaned against the door, forcing a calm tone.
"It's alright, Daisy. Nothing to make a molehill out of."
There was a pause. He could almost hear her skepticism through the wood, but finally, she seemed to relent.
"Okay… if you say so," she murmured, trusting him, at least for now.
"Don't worry about me. I'll be fine," Niero added softly.
Daisy's voice brightened just a little.
"Alright… I'll see you downstairs! We still need to help Mom with the preparations for the third day of the Radiant Day event!"
Her footsteps faded as she made her way down the stairs. Niero exhaled slowly, feeling the tension leave his shoulders. For the first time since waking, a sense of relief washed over him. He was alone, safe—for now—and the shadows of the nightmare were finally just that: a dream.
The relief had barely settled in Niero's chest when the air beside him rippled.
Vuldyr manifested silently, her ethereal form phasing into existence as if she had always been there, watching. Her expression—usually playful or teasing—was uncharacteristically serious.
> "I reviewed the record of your dream," she said at last.
That alone made Niero stiffen. "You… saw it?"
She nodded slowly.
> "Yes. The corridor. The unfamiliar point of view. And Greedmonger."
Her voice softened, almost troubled.
> "She felt… different. Somber. Heavy. But at the same time—strangely familiar. As if I'd known her in a way I no longer remember."
Niero frowned. Something felt wrong.
"That's it?"
Vuldyr tilted her head.
> "What do you mean?"
"The black figure," he said immediately. His heartbeat quickened. "The thing at the end of the hallway. The one that lunged at me."
Silence.
Vuldyr blinked. Once. Then again.
> "Black… figure? What black figure?" she repeated, genuinely confused.
> "There was nothing like that in the record."
Niero felt a chill crawl up his spine.
"What?"
> "I saw nothing that would explain your scream," she continued, scanning invisible data streams, her brow furrowing. "No hostile presence. No anomalous entity. Just the corridor—and then the dream ends."
The room suddenly felt smaller.
"…So you're saying," Niero murmured, voice tight, "whatever attacked me—"
> "—was not recorded or perceived, even by me" Vuldyr finished quietly.
The implication hung between them, cold and heavy.
When Vuldyr finally asked what had happened—what Niero meant by this *"black figure"*—he told her everything.
He described the dream as it unfolded through borrowed eyes, vision drowned in static, like reality seen through a broken transmission. Greedmonger's voice echoed in that haze—somber, resolute—speaking of endings and points of no return. Then the perspective shifted. Sharpened. Clarified.
He was no longer watching.
He was there.
The same corridor. The same cold, metallic hallway of the ship. Lights flickering. Silence pressing in. And at the far end—
Something stood waiting.
A humanoid silhouette, pitch-black, featureless save for its shape—too solid to be a shadow, too empty to be alive. It didn't move. It didn't breathe. It simply *existed*, radiating a presence that made his instincts scream.
Then it lunged.
No warning. No sound. Just sudden motion, like a scene ripped straight out of a horror film—too close, too fast—
And he woke up screaming.
Vuldyr went pale as he spoke.
> "A jumpscare…?" she repeated quietly, disbelief threading her voice.
> "That moment—none of it exists in the Astra Codex."
She pulled up layers of data, scanning deeper and deeper, her expression growing strained.
> "There were no black tendrils. No hostile manifestations. Nothing resembling a recorded anomaly."
Her gaze lifted to him, unsettled.
> "And yet, this..." she said, voice dropping, "was a figure."
The room felt colder after that.
If the Astra Codex hadn't seen it—if the system itself had no memory of the thing that terrified him—
Then whatever had reached for Niero in that hallway had never intended to be recorded or to be seen at all.
Vuldyr hesitated before asking, carefully choosing her words.
> "Do you think it was just… an ordinary nightmare?"
Niero paused.
He wanted to say yes. Wanted to laugh it off, blame lingering stress or an overactive imagination. But the answer refused to come. Something coiled low in his gut—tight, insistent—telling him that what he'd seen wasn't born from fear alone.
"No," he said finally. "It didn't feel like one."
As he moved toward his wardrobe, pulling on his worn metal-band hoodie and slipping into his parkour-styled harem pants, that feeling only worsened.
It wasn't panic. It was certainty—quiet and sharp—like realizing you'd missed a step after your foot had already fallen.
Vuldyr studied him for a long moment, then nodded.
> "Then I'll trust your instincts. If there's more to that dream—anything hidden beneath the surface—I'll analyze it. I promise."
Golden motes began to drift from her form as she dematerialized, her presence dissolving into soft sparks of light.
> "If there's something concrete to find," her voice echoed faintly, "I'll find it."
The room fell silent.
Alone again, Niero exhaled slowly, pressing a hand against his stomach as it twisted uncomfortably. He couldn't tell whether it was just the aftermath of a nightmare—or his body reacting to something it understood before his mind could.
Or maybe a stress-induced stomachache.
Either way, the feeling refused to fade.
And that unsettled him far more than the scream had.
-
[ < PRESENT > March 15th, 2087 (Early Noon) | Sector 10's Time Square (87th Radiant Day) > Sector 10-02 > Mega Ark-City 01: Radiant City > Earth ]
By early noon, Sector 10's Time Square had settled into a calmer rhythm.
The third—and final—day of the 87th Radiant Day was underway. Compared to the explosive energy of the first two days, today felt quieter, more reflective, as if the city itself was catching its breath after days of celebration.
The banners still fluttered overhead, holographic streamers glowed faintly in the daylight, and distant music drifted through the air—but with less ativities, less food stalls, the crowds had thinned, their excitement mellowed into a warm, lingering cheer.
Aunt Alura had taken charge for the day. She brought Sophie, Niero, and Daisy along to the square, setting up a modest but inviting stall beneath a translucent canopy. The familiar scent of Maison Bella Café's pastries filled the air—freshly baked cakes, delicate sweets, and the comforting aroma of tea and coffee drawing in passersby who were looking to savor the last taste of the festival.
Behind the counter, Sophie handled customers with practiced confidence, Daisy eagerly offering samples with far too much enthusiasm, while Niero worked quietly beside them, helping where he could. It felt… almost normal.
Meanwhile, their mother had gone elsewhere, managing the larger side of the business—supplying other cafés and nearby Spire megabuilding housing complex, ensuring Maison Bella's presence stretched beyond the square itself.
For a brief moment, amid the gentle bustle of the last Radiant Day, Niero allowed himself to blend into the crowd.
Niero moved on instinct as he cut and plated slices of tiramisu, his hands steady and precise from long practice. The college girls clustered at the counter laughed a little too loudly, leaning in just a bit too close, their teasing remarks and not-so-subtle flirting bouncing off him as if they were background noise. He smiled politely, responded when needed, and carried on—automatic, detached, almost mechanical.
Outwardly, he was just another café helper.
Inwardly, his mind was elsewhere.
"About the dream…" Niero murmured silently, his thoughts brushing against Vuldyr's presence. "We didn't really talk about it this morning. Not the part with Greedmonger."
Vuldyr's voice answered in his head, calm but focused.
> "I've been reviewing it. That vision only manifested after you awakened the Empyrean Reliquary and unlocked the Greedmonger Aspect."
That made his fingers pause for the briefest fraction of a second before he resumed cutting.
"So it wasn't random," he thought.
> "No," Vuldyr replied.
> "It feels… intentional. Like a fragment pulled forward in time. Possibly a prelude—something meant to prepare you."
The laughter of customers faded into dull noise as her words sank in.
"Prepare me for what?" Niero asked.
> "I'm not entirely sure. Perhaps for what the Reliquary truly is, she said quietly."
> "And for what the Stargods before you were involved in. Especially Greedmonger."
Niero set another plate down, accepting payment with a practiced nod, while unease coiled in his chest. If the Empyrean Reliquary was a vault of echoes and legacies… then that dream hadn't been just a dream.
"Then what about the other one?" Niero asked, his thoughts pressing gently but insistently. "The Outsider."
He slid another slice of tiramisu onto a plate, cocoa dust falling like dark snow across cream. His eyes stayed forward, but his attention turned inward.
"Is there anything about it that matches what I saw with Greedmonger? Anything at all?"
There was a brief pause before Vuldyr answered.
> "I don't know," she admitted.
> "The data I have on the Outsider is… almost nonexistent. But there is one anomaly that keeps surfacing."
Niero felt his chest tighten.
"Which is?"
> "That nightmare you had long before the Radiant Day," she said slowly.
> "The one aboard the alien warship. The bridge. The dying star outside the viewport—being swallowed by darkness."
His grip on the plate hardened, knuckles whitening.
He remembered it too clearly. The vastness of space beyond the glass. The star collapsing in on itself like a failing heart. And then—the blast doors.
"The black tendrils," Niero murmured.
> "Yes," Vuldyr confirmed.
> "The tendrils emerging from the sealed doors, attacking you from within the room itself. That dream carries the same signature as the silhouette you saw in your recent nightmare."
A chill crawled up his spine.
"So you think they're connected?" he asked. "The tendrils. The black figure. The Outsider."
> "Possibly," Vuldyr said.
> "But I can't prove it. Right now, it's nothing more than a hypothesis—a shot in the dark based on pattern recognition."
The weight of that uncertainty settled heavily between them.
Niero exhaled slowly. "So… no real answers."
> "Not yet," Vuldyr replied, her voice softer.
> "I'm sorry. I know that's not what you want to hear."
He let out a quiet, tired sigh, the kind that came from carrying questions with no place to set them down.
"It's okay," he said at last.
"If this really is tied to the Outsider… then it probably wasn't meant to be understood right away."
He glanced up, past the stall, past the crowd and the glowing banners of the Radiant Day festival.
"I guess time will tell," he added.
Niero didn't even realize his body was moving on autopilot until a paper plate left his hand.
"Here you go," he said reflexively.
Only—his hand didn't come back.
Warm fingers closed around his wrist, soft but firm, and the sudden contact snapped him out of his haze. He looked up.
Standing in front of him was a cute Asian girl dressed in an overly feminine pastel gothic lolita outfit—lace, ribbons, frills layered upon frills. She smiled sweetly, tilting her head just enough to look innocent.
Yet something about her presence felt… wrong.
Her eyes lingered on him a second too long. Her smile didn't quite reach them.
"Such kind smile. Such lovely aura..." that mysterious girl talking.
"Could it be that you're… you're my prince charming, aren't you?" she asked cutely, voice syrupy, almost sing-song.
A chill ran down Niero's spine.
That was when he noticed it—faint, thin cut lines beneath her wristbands. Old. Intentional. Hidden, but not hidden enough.
His gut sank.
Jirai-kei…
Landmine girl.
Sophie told him about these girls; mentally unstable girls.
Absoulutely bad news.
Before his brain could fully process what to do—or before Vuldyr could even warn him—
SMACK.
"Ow?!"
Daisy appeared out of nowhere like a tiny force of nature, flyswatter in hand, having lightly but decisively smacked the girl's arm.
"My brother is not for sale!" Daisy declared, planting herself in front of Niero like a shield, eyes blazing with righteous fury.
The lolita girl's expression twisted, sweetness cracking into irritation. She opened her mouth—
Only to freeze.
Sophie stepped forward, calm, silent, and terrifying.
In her hands was a rolling pin.
She didn't swing it.
She didn't need to.
She simply raised it slightly and met the girl's eyes with a flat, warning stare.
"Back off," Sophie said coolly. "Now."
The atmosphere shifted instantly.
The lolita girl recoiled, muttering something under her breath before turning and vanishing into the crowd, ribbons swaying as she fled. Around the stall, the other girls fell silent—some confused, some concerned, some suddenly realizing just how close things had gotten.
Niero stood there, stunned, heart still pounding.
He looked down at Daisy, then at Sophie.
"…Thanks," he said quietly.
Daisy puffed out her chest proudly. "You're welcome."
Sophie sighed, lowering the rolling pin. "Try not to get kidnapped by strangers while selling cake."
Niero gave a weak smile.
"Yeah," he thought. "I've had enough of that for one lifetime."
Niero returned to serving cakes and pastries, hands moving smoothly as customers came and went, the stall slowly settling back into its usual rhythm.
From behind the counter, Daisy tugged on Sophie's sleeve.
"Hey… why didn't Pumpkin come with us today?"
Sophie glanced around as if the fat orange tabby might suddenly materialize.
"Mom and Aunt Alura tried calling him," she said flatly. "But his lazy butt decided the couch was more important than being the café mascot."
Daisy frowned deeply, clearly unconvinced.
"But Pumpkin could've protected Big Brother from those… hungry, scary girls."
Niero snorted softly. "Protect me? That cat runs away from vacuum cleaners."
He meant it as a joke.
Yet the thought lingered longer than it should have.
Pumpkin.
The cat.
Cupcake...cat.
His hand instinctively brushed against his pocket.
Niero froze.
His breath caught as the realization hit him like a dropped tray shattering on the floor.
The acrylic keychain.
The one Daisy had made for him—an orange cat with a cupcake body, Maison Bella Café printed proudly on the back. Pumpkin, in chibi form. He always kept it with him.
Always.
He searched his pockets again. Then his apron. Then his bag.
Gone.
His mind raced backward through the last two days, replaying scenes in frantic fragments—crowds, alarms, running feet, blood and adrenaline—
The parking lot.
Day one of the Radiant Day.
The Orkoid Orc.
A cold weight settled in his chest.
"Shit!" Niero whispered.
Daisy blinked. "Huh? What is it, Big Bro?"
He swallowed. "Huh! No...nothing."
Niero kept his head down, swallowing the knot in his chest. He said nothing about the missing keychain. No panic. No questions. No worried looks from Daisy.
"I'm gonna grab us lunch from Cosmo Burger," he said casually, already tugging off his apron. "Be right back."
Aunt Alura, sprawled lazily in her fold-up chair like a queen on break, waved a hand without opening her eyes.
"Double cheeseburger set for me. Extra Cosmo sauce."
"Chicken burger," Sophie added.
"Fish burger!" Daisy chimed in, holding up three fingers for emphasis.
Niero flashed them a double thumbs-up, forcing a grin.
"Got it."
Then he turned—and bolted.
His footsteps faded quickly into the crowd, urgency bleeding through what was supposed to be a simple food run.
Daisy tilted her head, watching him disappear.
"…Big Brother's been weird lately."
Sophie narrowed her eyes, arms crossing slowly.
"Yeah. For weeks now."
Neither of them said it out loud—but both felt it.
=
==========
=
Niero slipped away from the stall and sprinted across the street, weaving through pedestrians until the noise of the festival dulled behind him. His destination was clear—too clear.
The parking lot.
An alleyway lined with e-cars and silent parking meters, tucked away between buildings. Clean. Orderly. Ordinary.
The same place where he had fought tooth and nail against a Rank-D Orkoid Berserker—the Orc.
There was no sign of it now. No scorch marks. No shattered asphalt. No blood, human or otherwise. The Bloom Dominion's D-Blockade technology had done its job perfectly. The mirror-dimension arena had collapsed, the damage voided, the space restored to a pristine, almost sterile normalcy.
As if nothing had ever happened.
As if it hadn't nearly killed him.
Two days ago.
Only two days.
A heavily incapacitated, half-blinded Orc had still come at him like a force of nature—howling, raging, refusing to die. And Niero… Niero had been worse off. Bones fractured. His left leg crushed and mangled beyond recognition. Every breath a gamble. Every second balanced on the edge of death.
It was too soon to say it felt like yesterday.
"Vuldyr," Niero thought, steadying his breath. "Run a multispectral scan. Full sweep. I'm looking for something small—an acrylic keychain."
The reply came instantly.
A silent pulse rippled outward from him, expanding in a perfect spherical wave. Reality peeled back layer by layer as data flooded his vision. His HUD bloomed to life—outlining e-cars in wireframe, tagging parking meters with serial IDs, mapping molecular residues embedded in the concrete. Carbon dating, thermal echoes, residual energy signatures—all of it laid bare in cold, clinical precision.
For a moment, it felt like the world itself had been dissected just for him.
And yet—
Nothing.
No trace of acrylic polymers. No residual resin signature. No fragment, no smear, no anomaly that could be traced back to the little orange cat-shaped keychain Daisy had made for him.
> "Negative," Vuldyr finally reported, her tone carefully neutral. "No detectable remnants within the scan radius."
Niero's jaw tightened.
> "Best-case scenario," she continued, "it was never here. Possibly left at home—under your unwashed laundry, statistically speaking."
He almost laughed at that.
> "Worst-case scenario…" Vuldyr hesitated a fraction of a second. "The D-Blockade may have classified it as foreign matter and isolated it during field cleanup, possibly being secured as an evidence or some sort."
That landed harder.
Niero let out a slow breath and muttered under his breath, "Rats…"
Of all the things he'd lost—blood, time, innocence—that stupid little keychain was the one that hurt the most right now.
Still, he wanted to believe the simple answer—that the keychain was safe at home, buried under yesterday's clothes, forgotten and harmless. But the thought refused to settle.
What if it wasn't?
What if Bloom Dominion security had it right now—catalogued, scanned, flagged as anomalous debris recovered from a D-Blockade zone?
His chest tightened.
That little acrylic charm wasn't just a trinket. It was handmade. Personal. Traceable. If anyone competent looked at it long enough, they could follow it back to Maison Bella Café. Back to Sector 13.
Back to his family.
Back to him.
And then what?
The Bloom Dominion didn't fear power—they regulated it. Superhuman abilities were expected, categorized, justified through Edenfruit exposure, Mana resonance, psionic awakenings, bloodline inheritance, or patronage under powerful women. Power had a framework.
Niero didn't.
A boy.
Male.
No Edenfruit blessings.
No Mana signature.
No registered matriarchal sponsor.
Not even a Sororitae candidate.
Maybe can pass with classification as a psionic awakening.
Yet still powerful.
Still alive after things that should've killed him.
His thoughts spiraled. If the Dominion discovered someone like him, someone who didn't fit the system—would they try to contain him? Study him? Weaponize him? Or quietly erase him before he became a problem?
For better… or worse.
His breathing grew shallow before he even realized it.
> "Niero," Vuldyr's voice cut in, gentle but firm, threading through his rising panic.
> "Slow down. You're extrapolating worst-case outcomes without sufficient data."
"That doesn't mean they're impossible," he muttered under his breath, fingers curling into his sleeves.
> "I know," she replied softly.
> "But panicking won't protect you. Right now, there is no evidence that the keychain was recovered, logged, or even noticed."
She paused, then added, more earnestly.
> "And you are not alone. Whatever happens—we face it together."
Niero swallowed, forcing air back into his lungs. The fear didn't vanish, but it dulled, just enough for him to stand upright again.
Still… the thought lingered.
Somewhere out there, a fragile line separated his quiet, ordinary life from a truth the world was not ready to accept.
And he was terrified of what would happen if that line ever broke.
Niero's thoughts were spiraling—tight, suffocating—when a sudden shout tore through the alley.
It was loud. Raw. Angry.
He flinched hard, instinct overriding panic. Before his mind caught up, his body had already moved—ducking aside and pressing himself behind the bulk of an SUV-like e-car, heart hammering as he peeked around the curved metal edge.
A man burst into the parking lot.
Middle-aged. Bearded. Face smeared with erratic marker scribbles—symbols, half-words, things that looked like they'd been scrawled in a frenzy. His eyes were wild as he ran, boots slapping against the pavement—
—and then he was tackled.
Bloom Dominion policewomen hit him with practiced precision, driving him to the ground in a blur of armored limbs. He thrashed, snarling, voice cracking as they hauled him upright.
"THEY'RE ALL LYING TO YOU, YOU SHEEPLES!!!!!" he screamed, veins bulging in his neck. "The Radiant Empress is the real invader! This world was rigged from the start—humankind dominated by that invader! Men were never meant to awaken! It's all by design! BY DESIGN!"
His words spilled out in manic torrents—half-coherent conspiracies, the kind whispered through pirate Ark.Net channels or illegal radio podcast, festering just beneath the surface of society.
Niero felt a chill crawl up his spine.
The police didn't argue. Didn't hesitate. One shoved him toward the open patrol car door as he continued to ramble and curse, clawing uselessly at their grips. Another forced his head down, firm and unyielding.
The door slammed shut.
The vehicle pulled away moments later, sirens muted, leaving behind nothing but tire marks and a silence that felt heavier than before.
Niero stayed frozen behind the e-car long after they were gone.
The man's words echoed in his head—not because they were convincing… but because they brushed too close to fears Niero hadn't dared to name.
Men weren't meant to awaken.
He swallowed.
It always been a mystery why only men in the world don't get supernatural powers except the rare few, thinking maybe the he is not the only one question such a coincidental phenomenon.
For the first time, he wondered whether that man was just another lunatic—
—or someone who had looked too long into a truth the world refused to acknowledge.
As Vuldyr and Niero quietly debated whether the so-called conspiracy nut had been completely unhinged—or dangerously close to the truth—something brushed against Niero's hand.
Niero jerked his hand back instinctively. Heart hammering.
"—What the—?"
A slip of paper, thin and crumpled, fluttered to the pavement between them. Niero crouched, snatching it up with a grimace.
The paper was covered in jagged handwriting—scrawls almost identical to the man's face markings. Symbols, half-words, arrows looping into themselves like a chaotic map. One line was underlined three times:
"BE AWAKE. DO NOT TRUST THE RADIANT LIGHT."
Niero felt a shiver run down his spine. The words weren't coherent, not entirely—but they carried a weight, a pulse that thrummed in his chest like a warning bell.
Vuldyr's lips twitched.
> "I've seen a lot of nonsense in Bloom Dominion… but this—" he shook the paper, letting the wind catch it. "This doesn't feel like nonsense."
Niero knelt to inspect the sidewalk, half-expecting the wind to carry the scribbled sheet away, but it stayed, as if glued to the world by some unseen force.
Something deep in him stirred, a gnawing, forbidden curiosity. He remembered the man's words: Men weren't meant to awaken.
And for the first time, the question that had lingered in the back of his mind, unspoken, unexamined, screamed louder:
What if he was right?
He swallowed hard, glancing at Vuldyr. The older agent's eyes were wide, his jaw tight, but there was no hesitation. Niero knew what they had to do.
Together, they followed the pull of the paper—and with it, the faintest trace of the truth that no one else wanted to see.
A cold aluminum can.
"—Huh? Oh, thanks."
Without thinking, muscle memory kicked in. He accepted it, fingers closing around the familiar shape. Nova-Cola. Still chilled.
He popped the tab.
The hiss of carbonation rang far too loud in his ears.
Niero froze.
Wait.
His eyes dropped to the can.
Where did this come from?
There hadn't been a vending drone. No stall. No one nearby—
His breath caught.
Adrenaline slammed into his veins.
Niero moved instantly.
He rolled sideways out of the narrow pathway, shoulder scraping pavement as he twisted to his feet, the can clattering away. His hand dove into his pocket and came up with a folding knife, blade snapping open on pure delayed instinct.
His heart thundered, vision sharp and narrowed.
"Who—?!"
From behind the e-car, a pair of hands slowly rose into view from the pathway from the alleyway. Fingerless gloves. Calm. Unhurried.
Then a voice—low, adult, and infuriatingly relaxed.
"Easy there, kid," the man said coolly. "Cool your jets."
A man stepped out from the mouth of the alleyway.
He looked to be in his thirties, tall and loose in posture, wearing a Bloom Dominion Anti-Anomaly Agency's M.A.R.S. bodysuit—the kind designed for riot suppression and anomaly containment with augmented physical prowess—half-hidden beneath a long, weathered trench coat. A mechanical katana rested at his left hip, its sheath humming faintly with dormant tech.
He had the look of someone who'd seen too much and decided to stop caring about most of it.
Asian-European features, sharp but worn smooth by years. Short hair slicked back with gel, a perpetual five-o'clock shadow framing a crooked, almost lazy grin. Scruffy. Relaxed. Dangerous in the way veterans often were.
He raised both hands as he approached, palms out, voice easy.
"Whoa, whoa. Easy, kid. No need for theatrics."
Then his eyes flicked down to the folding knife in Niero's grip.
The man stiffened—dramatically.
"Oh hell no," he said, recoiling a full step back like he'd just been threatened with a nuclear weapon.
"Anything but that. You found my one true weakness." He clutched his chest.
"Small knives. Deadliest weapon known to man."
The performance was so exaggerated it bordered on absurd.
Niero stared at him, unblinking, unimpressed.
"…Are you serious?"
The man paused.
Then he sighed, shoulders slumping as the act dropped instantly.
"Nah," he said flatly. "Not even a little."
But the way his eyes stayed locked on Niero—sharp, measuring, never once leaving his hands—made it clear he'd been joking about everything except the danger.
Niero still held his folding knife, fingers tense, eyes cautious.
Takeshi Armitage rested his left hand lightly on the hilt of his mechanical katana, walking slowly in a circle around the boy. His voice was casual, almost teasing, yet carried a subtle authority.
"Relax," he said, "I'm with the Anti-Anomaly Agency, also known as BDAAA or BD3A. And… honestly?" He glanced at the discarded soda can, a mock frown crossing his face. "I'm a little hurt you just threw that soda away after I offered it."
Niero's eyes narrowed. "Who are you?"
With deliberate calm, Takeshi produced a small holographic badge. A soft golden glow projected his name and division: Agent Takeshi Armitage, Section 13, BDAAA.
Niero blinked. "Why are you here?"
Takeshi's lips curled into the faintest smirk.
"Funny," he said, tilting his head, "that's exactly what I wanted to ask you. This place… empty, quiet… it doesn't exactly scream 'normal activity.'"
Niero hesitated, unsure what to say, before blurting out.
"I… I was looking for an arcade token I accidentally dropped. Rolled out here, somehow."
Takeshi paused, scrutinizing him. His eyes narrowed, scanning every subtle movement, but after a moment, he gave a small nod, accepting the explanation—for now.
"You've got a weird way of losing arcade tokens," Takeshi muttered, shaking his head with an amused glint.
Agent Takeshi leaned casually against the SUV, tilting his head as he prodded.
"So… besides hunting down some lost arcade token, why are you hiding behind that e-car?"
Niero's mind raced. He could feel Vuldyr's calm voice flicker into his thoughts, nudging him.
> "Use the guy from earlier—the conspiracy nutjob. Make it believable."
Taking a slow breath, Niero nodded and explained.
"I… I got startled by that… guy who was screaming about the Radiant Empress. Thought… thought he might lose it on me or something."
Takeshi's lips twitched, then broke into a hearty laugh.
"Oh yeah! I saw that—yeah, the conspiracy nutcase podcaster. Kinda hilarious watching how they tackled him. Like a bunch of clumsy rugby players trying to pin down a fly. And that shit he was spewing, "Don't Trust The Radiant Light" crap was kinda funny."
Niero let out a quiet breath, hoping his excuse held water.
Takeshi's amusement was a relief—if he could get away with blending into the mundane chaos of Sector 10 for just a little longer, he might actually survive the day without drawing more attention.
Takeshi's laughter faded as quickly as it came. Within a heartbeat, his expression snapped into calm, controlled seriousness. He began pacing slowly around Niero, each step measured, deliberate—like a shark circling its prey.
"We're getting off topic," he said, voice low but edged with authority.
"Why here? This parking lot… you don't exactly strike me as someone who owns a car. And the Radiant Day event is still in full swing outside."
Niero felt the weight of the words. This man wasn't just another official—he was Bloom Dominion authority incarnate, and every instinct screamed that he should not be underestimated.
For a moment, Niero's chest tightened, adrenaline prickling along his spine. Then, forcing calm into his limbs, he met Takeshi's gaze head-on.
"I told you… I retrieved a dropped arcade token," he said steadily, voice measured. "And… I hid from that deranged man who got arrested. That's it."
He leaned slightly into his lie, threading it with just enough truth to make it believable. Every muscle tensed, ready to react if the agent sniffed even a hint of deception.
Takeshi stopped, studied him for a long, loaded moment. Silence stretched, thick and sharp, before the agent exhaled, as if weighing the boy's credibility.
Takeshi's gaze lingered on Niero, scanning him from head to toe with unnerving precision. His eyes flicked over the boy's lean frame, the casual metal band hoodie, the way his hands flexed almost instinctively as if they were made to wield a weapon.
"Ya know. You shouldn't put your potential to waste," Takeshi said, his voice calm but sharp, catching Niero completely off guard.
Niero blinked, unsure if he'd heard correctly.
"P… potential?" he stammered.
Takeshi's expression softened just a fraction, though his tone remained serious.
"From the way you carry yourself… that frame of yours, those hands, the fire in your eyes… I can sense it. You've got the makings of a soldier, maybe even a BDAAA agent… or a Marauder. Raw material, untapped."
Niero froze, a flush creeping up his neck. His mind raced for a response, and finally, he shrugged helplessly.
"I… I have no idea what you're talking about. I'm just a lazy teenage guy with too much gaming and junk food."
Takeshi's lips twitched in what might have been a smile—or the hint of one—but he didn't respond immediately. He simply studied Niero, as if weighing that claim against the unspoken truth he could already see beneath the surface.
Takeshi stopped his pacing, his eyes locking onto Niero's with an intensity that made the boy instinctively straighten his back. Slowly, deliberately, he stepped closer and placed his left hand on Niero's right shoulder—a grounding touch, firm but not heavy.
"Ya know. The Ark-Cities," he said, voice calm yet carrying the weight of conviction, "and the world beyond… they need more daring men and women. People who will uphold their duty, protect what little remains of humanity under the radiance of the Empress. Whether it's defending the city within, venturing outside its walls, or even traversing the fog for loot and resources—you could be one of them. I have a very strong gut feeling on this."
Niero's eyes widened, a mixture of denial and uncertainty twisting in his chest. He opened his mouth to protest, but Takeshi raised a hand, cutting him off effortlessly.
A small, encouraging smile softened the edges of his stoic expression.
"Rise above, boy. You've got more in you than you realize."
He slid a sealed envelope into the boy's hand.
"Keep this. Consider it… an offer."
Then, without waiting for a response, Takeshi turned and began to walk away. Just before disappearing into the ebbing crowd, he glanced back over his shoulder.
"If you ever change your mind, Niero… come find me at Section 13. Potential sponsorship and training, as well as bonuses... well, for me that is. I scout for talent, and you've got it. Don't waste it."
With that, he walked into the throng, hands resting casually behind his head, exuding an effortless confidence that made the world feel simultaneously larger and more possible for Niero.
Niero stood frozen, the envelope trembling slightly in his hands. Vuldyr materialized beside him, her golden form shimmering as she tilted her head in curiosity—and concern.
> "That agent… something about him feels off," she murmured, her tone carefully measured. "Almost… predatory. Like he's sizing you up in a way that isn't just professional."
Niero swallowed hard, his gaze fixed on the envelope. Slowly, almost hesitantly, he opened it.
Three items slid into his other hand.
The first was mundane enough: a navy blue contact card, sleek and black, embossed with the video animated logo of Section 13 of the Bloom Dominion's Anti-Anomaly Agency. On the other side of the card, a the contact number of its office display in white text.
It obviously radiates professionalism.
The other two made his spine tighten, cold creeping up his neck.
One was a photograph—himself at the Maison Bella Cafe, taken from a distance, casual and unassuming… yet unmistakably him.
The second… was his missing acrylic keychain, the little orange-cat cupcake Daisy had made for him, now scratched and battered as if it had skidded across rough concrete.
Niero's stomach dropped. Every instinct screamed at him. This wasn't just surveillance. This was targeted. Methodical. Personal.
Vuldyr's usual composure faltered; her voice carried a tremor of genuine concern.
> "Niero… this isn't the best case scenario," she said softly. "Far from it."
Niero simply stared at the keychain, at the photo, and then back at the envelope. Words failed him. All he could do was feel the weight of it—of being watched, of being marked, and of the invisible line he'd just crossed into a world that no longer felt safe.
Niero's pulse quickened.
"Scan the area—every camera, every angle," he commanded, his voice low but tense.
Vuldyr's golden motes flared as she spread out, sweeping the parking lot with a precision only she could manage.
> "There are at least two wall-mounted cameras," she reported. "One's damaged—its wiring fried months ago. A few vehicles have dash cams, but…"
Her gaze sharpened, analyzing.
> "With the D-Blockade active, standard recording devices—both wall-mounted and in-car—cannot retain footage of anything that happened here due to spacial diffrences. Only specialized equipment cameras used by the Bloom Dominion's security could have retain the data from the deactivation."
Niero clenched his fists, the weight of the envelope and the keychain in his hands suddenly heavier. Somehow… somehow, Agent Takeshi Armitage had pieced together that he had been the one to obliterate the goblins and the orcs in this very lot just days ago.
But if that's true… what did the agent think he was? A prodigy? A particularly ruthless mercenary? Or worse—if he somehow realized the truth of Niero's nature as a Stargod, would that secret still remain safe?
Vuldyr's voice was soft, tinged with analytical concern.
> "No detectable traces of Nova-Spark energy… no remnants of the Astra Force. Nothing remains except the carnage. The agent most likely just assumed your skill came from… exceptional skills and "human" potential, not from your real power."
Niero was shocked. "So I don't have to be worried about them finding out I'm a Stargod?"
Vuldyr responded.
> "I can confidently say yes. For now, your secret is safe. I can tell its a very, VERY close call. For now."
Niero exhaled sharply, trying to ground himself. So far, at least, his secret was safe. But the thought that someone could already connect the dots—through intuition, deduction, sheer observation or just "gut feeling"—was enough to keep him on edge. The envelope in his hand suddenly felt like a warning, a promise, and a threat all at once.
=
==========
=
[ March 15th, 2087 (Late Evening) | Maison Bella Cafe > Sector 13-05 > Mega Ark-City 01: Radiant City > Earth ]
With the crowds thinning and the streets far quieter than during the first two days of the 87th Radiant Day, they were able to close early and head back to Maison Bella Café in Sector 13-05. Aunt Alura drove them home, the city lights sliding past the windows as the hum of the engine filled the tired silence.
On the way, they gathered up the crumpled Cosmo Burger wrappers and half-empty cups scattered around the car, dumping them into a roadside bin before pulling in. Alura parked casually outside the café-home, stretching as if the long day had barely worn her down.
They hadn't earned nearly as much as before—no overflowing crowds, no frantic rush—but Alura waved it off with her usual grin.
"Hey, at least we've learned something important," she said lightly. "Niero's handsome face is a gold mine. A real cash cow for down bad desperate girls."
She shot him a teasing glance.
"Especially that jirai-kei girl. That crazy bitch was practically ready to chain herself to you. I wonder if we could have squeeze more cash from her."
The air shifted instantly.
Sophie's expression hardened. "AUNT ALURA!!! WHAT THE HELL?!."
Daisy puffed up, crossing her arms protectively. "Don't joke about that!"
For a brief second, Niero felt the weight of their concern—real, sharp, and sincere—press against his chest.
Alura blinked, then burst out laughing, raising her hands in surrender.
"Alright, alright. Tough crowd."
As Niero helped Aunt Alura, Sophie, and Daisy carry trays, brewing equipment, and storage crates back into the café-home, the air was filled with easy chatter—idol gossip about the latest Sororitae rankings, complaints about cliffhanger ending of a recent movie, excitement over upcoming shows. Ordinary, comforting noise. The kind that made the world feel stable.
Yet Niero's thoughts refused to stay with them.
His hands moved automatically, muscle memory taking over, while his mind replayed a far more unsettling presence—Agent Takeshi Armitage. The way the man smiled. The way his eyes never stopped measuring. Like he'd been watching Niero long before today.
How long…?
The realization crept in slowly, cold and unwelcome.
The first day of the Radiant Day.
The parking lot.
The crippled yet still-raging Orc, blind with fury. The D-Blockade sealing the space. His own blood on the asphalt. And somewhere within the mirror-thin veil of isolation—BDAAA agents, present but unseen, most likely handling other Hollow cretures that came out from its respective Breachspace portals.
It was entirely possible Takeshi had been there. Watching the impossible unfold. Watching a boy who should have died… walk away.
Niero tightened his grip on a crate, the wood creaking faintly. The laughter around him continued, warm and unaware, but for the first time since returning home, he felt it clearly—
The Radiant Day hadn't truly ended for him.
Vuldyr's voice slipped into his mind, calm but edged with urgency.
> "You're still in the clear—for now. But your margin for error is gone. Every step from here on out matters."
He could feel her processing at impossible speeds, running contingencies, discarding outcomes.
> "There are solutions," she added carefully.
> "Some… more extreme than others." She paused, almost reluctantly. "Assassination is not optimal—but it remains one of the potential solution."
Niero exhaled through his nose, steadying himself.
"I know," he replied. "I'm thinking. Just… give me time."
Then, without hesitation, he followed it up.
"Vee. Hack into M.A.C.-01's surveillance grid. Track Agent Armitage's movements if you can. And dig into Section 13's database—anything that ties him to me, any record, any interest logs. I need to know how deep this goes."
There was no surprise in her response—only resolve.
> "Already in progress," Vuldyr said. "I'll alert you the moment something surfaces."
Niero kept moving, lifting another crate, smiling faintly at something Sophie said—playing the role expected of him.
But beneath that mask, his thoughts hardened.
-
The moment Niero pushed open the café's front door—arms tensing under the weight of the coffee machine—his mind was still racing through worst-case outcomes, half-formed escape routes, and the feeling of unseen eyes watching his every move.
Then he stopped.
His mother stood behind the counter, calm as ever, serving a customer who clearly did not belong.
She was a Shellwalker. There was no mistaking it.
Her body gleamed in polished golden chrome, smooth and flawless, reflecting the café's warm lights in fractured halos. A shimmering cocktail dress clung to her artificial frame, tailored to excess and luxury, every subtle motion announcing wealth without shame. She looked like someone who should be sipping synth-wine in a sky-lounge atop a megacity spire—not standing in a modest, family-run café buried deep in Sector 13-05.
For a heartbeat, reality felt wrong. Like two incompatible scenes stitched together by mistake.
Shellwalkers were the culmination of humanity's most reckless ambition—a transhumanist gamble that stripped a mind from flesh and sealed it inside a manufactured body. Mortality abandoned. Death postponed indefinitely. A polished imitation of immortality, sold at a price most people could never pay… and many would never accept.
And yet, there she was.
Ordering pastries like it was the most ordinary thing in the world.
Niero swallowed, a chill creeping down his spine.
Niero's gaze lingered on the Shellwalker, and with it came the weight of history he'd grown up hearing about.
Shellwalkers hadn't begun as symbols of luxury or immortality.
They were born in desperation.
In the aftermath of Black December, back in the chaotic twilight of the Y2K era, the program had been conceived as a last-ditch supersoldier project—humans stripped of fragile flesh and reborn in mechanical bodies to wage war against the horrors spilling out from the Hollow Dimension. Monsters that ignored bullets. Nightmares that bent physics. Enemies that left humanity with no good options, only necessary ones.
The price had been steep.
Early Shellwalkers suffered catastrophic failures—unstable minds trapped in unfeeling bodies, feedback loops that shattered sanity, systems that decayed faster than they could be repaired. Technology lagged behind ambition, and what was meant to save humanity often broke the people who volunteered to become its shield.
Then the refugees arrived.
A group of alien survivors from the Hollow—among them the sapient machine race known as the Mechanoids—came seeking asylum. In exchange for refuge and safety, they offered knowledge that humanity could never have reached alone. Their sciences rewrote entire disciplines overnight: robotics, cybernetics, mechanical engineering… and most importantly, consciousness transfer.
That was when everything changed.
The crude process of organic brain transfer evolved into true digitization—the crystallization of the human soul into an Atman, a complete and stable digital self utilizing an Atman Core which uses a unknown alien crystal as its quantum data storage. New vessels followed: Somata, grown or forged bodies—biological, synthetic, or something in between—capable of housing an Atman without tearing it apart.
Shellwalkers were no longer broken soldiers.
They became immortals.
Standing there, watching a golden-skinned woman casually browsing cakes, Niero felt an unsettling truth settle in his chest.
Humanity hadn't stopped chasing godhood.
It had simply found another way to reach for it.
However, it stll has its own drawback.
The brochure called it a subscription, of course. It used softer words—continuity plans, existence assurance, post-mortality maintenance—but everyone knew what it really was. Immortality, billed monthly.
An Atman didn't persist on faith alone. It required server time, redundancy vaults, constant error correction. Memory rot was real. So was data drift. Miss enough payments and your backups were throttled, downgraded, quietly archived. Miss too many and your Atman would be flagged for hibernation—a polite euphemism for being frozen mid-thought, mid-self, until debts were resolved. Or forever.
Somata told the rest of the story.
The wealthy wore bodies that felt like art pieces—self-healing skin warm to the touch, synthetic nerves calibrated to pleasure, pain, and nuance indistinguishable from flesh. Gold, porcelain, carbon-silk frames. They aged only when they chose to, sculpting decades like fashion statements.
The poor made do with rentals or thrif store-like qualities.
Industrial shells with numb fingers. Refurbished frames with latency in the limbs and a faint echo in the voice. Bodies designed to be efficient, durable, replaceable. When a Somata failed, it wasn't tragedy—it was a logistics issue. File a claim. Wait your turn. Wake up somewhere cheaper.
And then there were the contracts.
Some became Shellwalkers because death was already knocking—terminal illness, shattered spines, war injuries that medicine couldn't touch. Desperation signed faster than any pen. Others bought their way in, heirs and magnates terrified not of dying, but of losing relevance.
The rest never truly chose.
Corporate Shellwalkers woke each cycle already owing time they hadn't lived yet. Their Atman licenses bound to employment clauses, their Somata stamped with ownership marks hidden beneath synthetic skin. Quit the job, and your body reverted to company property. Default, and even your self could be repossessed—partitioned, throttled, or leased out as auxiliary processing.
Immortality didn't erase class.
It fossilized it.
Niero watched the golden woman laugh with the baker, her Somata flawless, her Atman undoubtedly mirrored across a dozen private servers. Somewhere else, another Shellwalker was counting credits, hoping their body wouldn't stutter before the next billing cycle cleared.
Immortality, he realized, had terms and conditions.
And humanity, as always, had made sure someone owned them.
-
Niero watched as his mother thanked the affluent Shellwalker—Ms. Winston, if he'd heard correctly—and escorted her toward the door with practiced warmth. Just as the woman was about to leave, her golden gaze slid back to him and stopped.
"Oh?" she said, tilting her head slightly. "I had no idea Miss Ripley had such a handsome son."
The word handsome landed wrong—too deliberate, too measured.
Her eyes traced him with open curiosity, then her brow lifted in genuine surprise. "You said he was what? 15?" she repeated softly, as if tasting the number. "You look far more… grown than that."
Before Niero could even process the unease creeping up his spine, she leaned closer, her smile sharp and amused. "Well then," she murmured lightly, "come find me when you turn 18."
A wink followed—polished, effortless—and just like that, she turned and left the café, with her hips sway and golden heels clicking against the floor as the door chimed shut behind her.
The moment it did, the warmth in the room died.
Niero's mother pivoted on the spot, her professional smile vanishing as if it had never existed. Her eyes narrowed, lips flattening into a sharp line.
"…I don't like her," she said flatly.
No hesitation. No explanation.
"Gee," Niero muttered dryly, rubbing the back of his neck, "I wonder why."
The image of Miss Winston's gaze—slow, appraising, lingering like he was a honey-glazed pastry behind the display glass—still made his skin crawl. Judging by the look on his mother's face, she'd noticed it too… and very much disapproved.
"So," Niero lowered his voice as he leaned closer to the counter, "what was that all about? Why was that rich lady even here?"
His mother let out a sharp huff while folding her arms. "Her date stood her up."
"…That's it?"
"That's not it," she corrected, eyes narrowing. "She came in sulking, ordered three caramel croissants, and spent the entire time loudly complaining about 'trashy men with no manners or backbone.'"
Niero blinked. Once. Then twice.
"…all that before she staring at me?"
"Before staring at you like a vulture," his mother confirmed flatly.
He felt something inside him shrivel. "Wow. That's—bold."
"Mm-hmm. And before you ask—" she shot him a warning look "—NO, you are not allow to be the emotional support pastry for lonely, wealthy women. No sugar mommie in my lifetime"
Niero sighed, shoulders slumping. "Man… I just wanted a normal shift."
His mother slid a fresh tray into the oven with a decisive clang. "Then stop being the kind of boy who attracts trouble women."
"…I don't know how to do that," he muttered.
She smirked.
Before the conversation could spiral into a full-blown rant about rich people and their alarming lack of boundaries, his mother exhaled once and forcibly smoothed the tension away. The café owner mask slid back into place, warm and practiced.
"So," she said, clapping her hands lightly, "how were the Radiant Day sales today?"
Niero glanced toward the half-cleared counter, the untouched plates, the quiet hum of the café.
"Pretty weak," he admitted. "Compared to the first two days, at least."
She nodded, unsurprised.
"That's pretty normal in the field of any businesses. When the main event dies down, the crowds follow. Happens every year."
Niero smiled faintly at that.
"Aunt Alura's been behaving lately," he said, though the way his eyes slid aside suggested even he didn't fully believe it.
His mother gave a noncommittal grunt. "That's what she said last time too."
The bakery fell into a comfortable quiet, broken only by the soft rustle of paper bags and the distant hum of the cooling ovens. The warm, sugary scent lingering in the air felt heavier now—less inviting, more nostalgic.
After a moment, she straightened and wiped her hands on her apron. "Still," she added, glancing at him again, "you didn't look miserable today."
"That obvious?" Niero asked.
"To me? Always."
He leaned back against the counter, arms crossed. "I guess… it wasn't bad. Sophie and Daisy helped out. Fewer weird customers than usual."
She raised a brow. "Fewer?"
"…Okay, one memorable one."
Her lips twitched. "I thought so."
For a second, neither of them spoke. Then she reached out and lightly rapped her knuckles against his forehead—not hard, just enough to make a point.
"You're allowed to enjoy things, you know," she said gently. "Even if they repeat."
Niero blinked, surprised, then looked away. "Yeah. I know."
She hummed, clearly unconcerned, and kept packing away the pastries before asking offhandedly,
"By the way, where's today's sales money?"
"Aunt Alura's holding onto it," Niero replied.
His mother paused—only for a heartbeat, but it was enough. A flicker of concern crossed her face before she looked away and muttered under her breath,
"Let's just hope she doesn't spend it gambling… especially on those backstreet Mahjong tables she used to be obsessed with."
Niero smiled faintly.
Yeah. Used to, he repeated silently, not entirely convinced himself.
The oven clicked softly as it shut itself off, signaling the end of another long day. Outside, the sky had begun to dim, the light bleeding orange through the shop windows.
She glanced up again, as if remembering something important.
"Did you all have lunch already?"
"Yeah," Niero said. "Me, Sophie, Daisy, and Aunt Alura grabbed Cosmo Burger."
His mother's smile thinned just a little. "Fast food, again? You know that stuff isn't good for you."
Niero shrugged, unapologetic. "It's called fast food for a reason. We needed to fill our stomachs quick so we could keep running the stand."
She sighed, but there was no real anger in it—only the familiar worry of a mother who had said the same line a hundred times before.
"What about you?" Niero asked. "Did you eat?"
Her expression softened instantly.
"I did," she said with a small, satisfied smile.
"I had this delicious Chinese wonton egg noodles with the other moms while delivering a crate of pastries to a bar and a café in the Sector 13-03 Spire."
Niero nodded, oddly reassured.
As his mother continued chatting about her friends—laughing softly about shared meals and idle gossip—Niero's thoughts drifted elsewhere, climbing upward through steel and glass.
The Spires.
Towering vertical archologies that pierced the skyline like monuments to human stubbornness. Entire towns stacked atop themselves—markets humming day and night, gyms glowing behind reinforced glass, schools tucked between residential tiers, parking decks spiraling like mechanical intestines. Everything a person needed, compressed into a single colossal spine of concrete and alloy.
Most of them were built deep within the walls of the Mega Ark-Cities, their numbers varying by sector. M.A.C. 01 alone housed at least thirty Spires—one or two per sector—each capable of sheltering up to eight thousand people. Eight thousand lives breathing, dreaming, surviving inside a single tower.
They were humanity's answer to overcrowding in Ark-Cities.
A solution born not of comfort, but of necessity.
As Niero wiped down the counter and slid the remaining pastries into the fridge, the café settled into its familiar post-rush quiet—warm lights, the faint hum of refrigeration, his mother chatting idly as if nothing in the world were wrong.
But something was wrong.
The word Marauder lingered at the back of his throat.
He had asked her last night. He still remembered her reaction—how quickly the air had changed, how firmly she had shut the idea down. Bringing it up again felt like poking at a half-healed wound; her advice, her anger, her slamming her fist on the counter. His hands slowed. His heart didn't.
This time, though, it wasn't just curiosity driving him.
It was pressure.
The agent's knowing eyes. The envelope. The unspoken truth that someone out there had already started watching him.
Niero swallowed, fingers tightening around the cleaning cloth. Fear clawed at him, but he forced himself to stand straighter. If he was going to cross that line again, he couldn't do it as a scared kid dancing around the question.
As soon as Niero finished rinsing the last plate and set it carefully on the rack, he turned toward his mother, breath drawn in, words lining up at the edge of his lips.
"Mom, I—"
"No."
The single word cut through the air, clean and final.
He froze. "I didn't even say anything."
She didn't look at him at first. She kept wiping the counter, slow and deliberate, as if grounding herself in the motion. Then she sighed and finally met his eyes.
"I don't need you to," she said quietly. "I can see it. You've got that look again."
That look.
The same one from last night—the one she had already crushed with a firm refusal, the one she had hoped would be enough to keep him safe, to keep him here. Her gaze softened, but the resolve behind it only hardened.
"I already told you no," she continued, voice steady but strained at the edges. "And I meant it. You becoming a Marauder is not happening. Not today. Not ever."
Niero's chest tightened. He hadn't even spoken the word this time, yet it felt like he'd already lost the argument. Whatever hope he'd carried into this moment faltered under the weight of her certainty.
She knew.
She always knew.
Niero clenched his fists, nails biting into his palms as he finally pushed back.
"I'm not saying this for myself," he said, voice tight. "I'm saying it for us. For you. For Sophie. For Daisy. I know what a Marauder's life is like—I'm not stupid. I know it's dangerous."
That did it.
She turned on him so fast it made him flinch.
"Oh, you're not stupid?" she snapped, the warmth in her voice evaporating. "For a so-called genius prodigy, you're acting exactly like one."
Her words hit harder than any slap.
"Like an idiot who walks into danger on purpose," she continued, voice trembling now, sharp with fear she was no longer hiding. "An idiot who thinks being aware of the danger somehow makes him immune to it. An idiot who believes knowing the odds is the same as surviving them."
Niero opened his mouth—but she didn't let him.
"You think I don't know why you want this?" she said, eyes glistening. "You think I don't see you calculating everything, weighing lives like numbers, deciding that you should be the one to bleed so everyone else doesn't have to?"
Her hands shook as she pressed them against the counter.
"That's not bravery," she whispered. "That's a lack of self-preservation."
The room fell silent, heavy and suffocating.
Niero stood there, struck dumb—not because she was wrong, but because she had seen straight through him.
Niero tried to speak again—but her voice rose, sharp and final, cutting straight through him.
"No," she said. "You're not becoming a Marauder. Not now. Not ever. End of discussion."
The words slammed down like a verdict.
Silence followed. Thick. Suffocating.
Niero swallowed, his throat tight. When he finally spoke, his voice was barely above a whisper.
"…Do you really have that little faith in me?"
That did it.
Her shoulders sagged, as if the strength had been pulled right out of her. She turned toward him slowly, and when he saw her face, his chest ached—somber, eyes glassy, grief already written there as if she were mourning him in advance.
"Faith?" she repeated softly. "Niero… I know exactly how capable you are."
She stepped closer, her voice trembling now.
"I know how sharp your mind is. I know you're stronger than you look. I know you learn faster than anyone your age, that you adapt, that you survive." She let out a shaky breath. "I know you're capable of such greatness."
Her hand clenched into her apron.
"That's why I'm scared."
She met his eyes, tears threatening to spill.
"Because the world doesn't spare the capable. It uses them. Exploit them. It sends them into places they don't come back from." Her voice broke. "And I can't—I can't live with the thought of your room staying empty… or worse, someone knocking on that door with a badge and without a body."
She shook her head, tears finally slipping free.
"If you became a Marauder, I wouldn't be waiting for you to come home," she whispered. "I'd be waiting to hear that you never will."
Niero's hands clenched at his sides.
"Then why," he said, heat creeping into his voice, "why are Sophie and Daisy allowed to become Sororitae?"
The words slipped out sharper than he meant—but once spoken, he couldn't pull them back.
Mom stiffened.
"You know that's different," she shot back.
"They'll be inside the walls. Protected. Watched. Surrounded by the Dominion. Other Sororitae" Her voice hardened, practical and defensive.
"Sororitae today are peacekeepers, performers, symbols. Half police, half idols. They're safe, Niero. Safer than most."
He scoffed, bitterness flashing across his face.
"So what? I'm not?" He looked straight at her. "Do you really see me as some helpless baby who can't fend for himself?"
That did it.
Her voice snapped upward, sharp and trembling all at once.
"Don't you dare say that."
She turned on him fully now, eyes blazing, fear bleeding through her anger.
"I'm doing what's best for this family," she said, voice raised. "For all of us. Everything I've ever done is so we never have to leave M.A.C. 01. So we never have to step outside these walls and face what's out there again."
Her hands shook as she gestured vaguely, as if the horrors beyond the Ark-City were close enough to hear.
"I've seen what waits outside," she continued, voice cracking. "I've seen what the fog does to people. To families." She swallowed hard. "I won't let it take my son."
The room fell silent again—but this time, it wasn't just tension.
It was fear. Raw and naked.
"I don't want heroes," she whispered hoarsely. "I don't want brave boys marching off to die." Her eyes locked onto his, pleading now. "I just want my family to stay here. Alive. Safe. Together."
And in that moment, Niero realized this wasn't about trust in his strength.
It was about her terror of losing him—of being forced to survive in a world that had already taken too much.
Her words settled on Niero's chest like a physical weight, heavy and suffocating—the unspoken truth of what waited beyond the walls of M.A.C. 01 pressing in on him from all sides.
Mom crossed her arms, eyes sharp but tired.
"Then tell me," she demanded, voice trembling beneath its firmness. "Why are you so desperate to be a Marauder?" She let out a bitter laugh. "Is what I've done not enough? Do you think I failed you somehow? Didn't buy you enough games? Didn't give you enough allowance?"
That hurt more than her shouting.
Niero shook his head quickly. "No. That's not it." His voice was quieter now, earnest. "I just… I want to help. You. Sophie. Daisy. All of us." He hesitated, then forced the words out. "If I become a Marauder, our citizenship tier could go up. Better housing. Better security. Better income. Less worrying about tomorrow."
For a moment, she just stared at him.
Then her expression hardened—not with anger, but with painful clarity.
"BULLSHIT!" she said softly.
The words cut deeper than any accusation.
"I know when you're selling yourself a story," she continued. "And you're doing it now. You're telling yourself this is about us, about money or status… but it isn't." She stepped closer, her gaze searching his face. "There's something else in you. Something you're not telling me."
Niero opened his mouth—then stopped.
She exhaled, slow and shaky.
"And that's what scares me," she whispered. "Not the Marauders. Not the monsters outside." Her voice broke. "It's that my son is already carrying a weight he thinks he has to bear alone."
The silence that followed wasn't empty.
It was filled with everything Niero couldn't say—and everything she was afraid to hear.
Yet, the words only made it worse.
Something hot and sharp snapped inside Niero's chest, and before he could stop himself, he spun toward the café door, fists clenched so tightly his nails bit into his palms.
"Fine," he spat, voice shaking with anger. "Then maybe you should just say it. Say I'm an incompetent kid. A USELESS CHILD WITH NOTHING WORTH BEING OR TO BE PROUD OF."
The bell above the door chimed as he shoved it open.
"Where are you going?" Mom called after him, worry punching through her anger.
"The arcade," he shot back without turning around. "I need to cool off before I say something I can't take back."
He stepped out and tried—really tried—to slam the door.
Instead, the café's automatic hinge kicked in.
The door closed with an agonizing, polite slowness.
…whrrrk.
Niero froze. His shoulders sagged.
After a beat, he leaned back in, poking his head through the narrowing gap.
"I—uh. I was supposed to slam that."
Mom stared at him, caught between frustration and disbelief.
"So," he added stiffly, cheeks burning, "just… imagine I slammed it. Like. Really, REALLY loudly."
Then he stepped back, letting the door finish its soft, traitorous glide shut.
The bell chimed again—gentle, harmless, completely wrong.
Niero walked off down the street, hands buried in his pockets, anger still buzzing under his skin.
Inside the café, Mom stood alone behind the counter, staring at the door long after he was gone—stressed, shaken, and with a familiar ache settling deep in her chest.
As soon as Niero disappeared from view, the strength seemed to drain out of her all at once.
She pinched the bridge of her nose, eyes shut tight, breathing slow and shaky like she was holding something together with sheer willpower. After a few seconds, she turned and walked into the kitchen without a word, pulled a clean wine glass from the rack, then reached beneath the counter for an unopened bottle.
The soft clink of glass on steel echoed a little too loudly.
She wrapped her fingers around the cork, hesitating—just for a heartbeat—before starting to twist.
"That bad, huh?"
Aunt Alura's voice drifted in, light and teasing as always. She leaned against the doorframe with her arms crossed, an easy grin on her face.
"What is this, a wine party for one? You didn't even invite me."
The look she got in response wiped the grin clean off her face.
Her sister's eyes were tired. Not angry. Not sharp. Just… worn down in a way Alura didn't often see.
"…I'm joking," Alura said quickly, hands raised in surrender. "Bad timing."
She pushed off the doorframe and padded into the kitchen anyway, opening the cabinet to grab another wine glass. "Still. If you're opening one, you're not drinking alone."
She set the glass down beside her sister's and glanced at the unopened bottle. "Niero?"
That was all she had to say.
Her sister exhaled slowly, shoulders sagging. "He wants to be a Marauder."
Alura winced. "Ah."
"He won't let it go," she continued, voice tight as she finally pulled the cork free with a soft pop. "No matter how many times I tell him no. No matter how many times I explain why."
She poured the wine, the dark liquid swirling like something heavy being let loose.
"I yelled at him," she admitted quietly. "And he yelled back. And then he said things he shouldn't have… and I said things I shouldn't have."
Alura watched her carefully as she poured the second glass. "You didn't mean them."
"I know," she said. "But that doesn't mean he didn't hear them."
She pushed one glass toward Alura and kept the other close, fingers wrapped tightly around it like it was an anchor.
"I'm just trying to keep him alive," she whispered. "That's all I've ever wanted."
Alura took a sip, then sighed. "Yeah. And he knows it."
The words hung between them, heavy and uncomfortable.
Alura took another slow sip of her wine, savoring it more for the pause than the taste. Then she tilted her head, studying her sister over the rim of the glass.
"You know," she said lightly, "for a kid who swears he's being rambungcious, he's got a weirdly familiar attitude. Rebellious. Wild. Kinda hostile." A corner of her mouth twitched. "Like a little badger picking fights with things ten times his size."
Her sister didn't smile.
Instead, she stared into her glass as if the answer might be at the bottom of it. "I was worse," she said quietly. "And I wasn't smart about it. I was emotionally distant. Angry all the time. I didn't care who I pushed away."
She finally looked up at Alura, eyes sharp with something old and unresolved. "And you know that. You were there."
Alura's expression softened, the humor draining out of her posture.
"We were in the same division," Mom continued, her voice tightening. "You saw what we saw. The things in the fog. The monsters. The anomalies that shouldn't exist but do." Her grip on the glass tightened just a bit. "We survived, but it took pieces of us with it."
Alura didn't interrupt. She couldn't. She remembered too well.
"I don't want that for him," Mom said, more fiercely now. "Or for any of them. I don't want them learning how to kill things before they've learned how to live. I don't want them waking up screaming because something from the fog followed them home in their head."
Her voice dropped to a whisper. "I already paid that price. You paid it too."
Alura set her glass down gently. "Yeah," she said. "We did."
She reached out and rested her hand over her sister's, grounding, steady. "And that's exactly why he doesn't see it. To him, it's numbers and risk assessments and citizenship tiers. To us…" She exhaled. "It's the iron smell of the fog. The screams. The silence after."
Mom closed her eyes, just for a second. "I'm not trying to control him," she said. "I'm trying to save him."
Alura squeezed her hand once. "I know. And one day—maybe not today—but one day, he's going to understand that."
Alura leaned back in her chair, swirling the wine slowly, choosing her words with care. "He's growing," she said at last. "Rebellious, sure—but capable. More than capable." She glanced toward the hallway Niero had disappeared down. "Honestly? He reminds me of myself at that age."
That did it.
Mom's head snapped up. "Don't," she said sharply. "Don't you dare compare him to—"
"To us?" Alura cut in, raising one hand, palm out, a calming gesture she'd used in briefing rooms and firefights alike. "Hey. Breathe. I'm not saying it lightly."
Mom stood, anger flaring hot and fast. "You think I don't see where that path leads? You think I don't know what becoming a Marauder costs?"
"I know exactly what it costs," Alura said, her voice steady, unflinching. "We paid it."
The silence stretched, tight as a drawn wire.
Alura continued, more serious now. "But we've also seen things about that boy that don't line up with 'average kid.' Especially not an average boy in this society." She tapped the table once for emphasis. "He's stronger. Faster. Smarter. He adapts under pressure. You've seen it. I've seen it."
Mom's jaw clenched, but she didn't interrupt.
"He outpaces kids his age who are supposed to have the advantage," Alura went on. "That doesn't happen by accident. That's instinct. That's potential."
"And potential gets people killed," Mom snapped.
"Potential without guidance does," Alura shot back. Then she softened. "But with training? With structure? With family backing him instead of fighting him every step of the way?" She shook her head. "That's how people survive."
Mom sank back into her chair, the anger draining into something heavier—fear.
"If he joins," Alura said quietly, "I believe he can live through it. Not because he's reckless, but because he's prepared to be brave when it counts."
She reached across the table again. "He doesn't just need courage. He already has that. What he needs… is us. Our support. Our honesty."
Mom stared into her wine, the surface trembling slightly.
"I don't want to lose him," she whispered.
Alura squeezed her hand. "Then don't push him away. Walk with him instead."
The fog outside the walls of M.AC 01 felt closer somehow—but for the first time that night, it wasn't pressing in alone.
Emmy—grabbed the half-filled bottle of wine before Alura could even touch it and, without hesitation, chugged it down in one sharp motion.
Alura blinked, then leaned back in her chair with a smirk.
"You know," she said lightly, "if you're gonna chug like that, at least don't waste a good wine."
Emmy set the empty bottle down with a soft clink, her expression heavy now.
"Maybe I've been… too fearful," she admitted quietly, staring at the table as if it reflected her worries. "I've caged him. Niero… I've kept him too safe."
Alura's teasing smile faded, replaced by attentive concern.
"But," Emmy continued, her voice steady, "you're right. He needs faith, and he needs support. If he's going to be a Marauder… I have to train him. And more than that—"
Alura glanced at the intoxicated yet steeled Emmy.
"I have to test him" she wishpered to herself.
Alura's eyes widened slightly, a low, tense "Oh boy…" escaping her lips.
She leaned back, swirling the empty wine glass in her hand. The weight of that statement hung in the room like a storm cloud, and even the soft hum of the cafe couldn't chase it away.
=
=========
=
<<[ Ch 13 - END ]>>>