The roar of the rotors filled the dying sky.
Marc felt the world tilt as the helicopter descended, whipping dust and heat into the air. The crater below them glowed faintly blue, the ground splitting and collapsing in slow motion, as if the earth itself was exhaling after holding its breath for centuries.
"Go, go, go!" Sergeant Lu Xian shouted over the deafening blades. His men pulled Howard in first, equipment bags clattering, then hauled Marc up by the arm.
The moment the last boot cleared the edge, the ground where they had stood buckled inward. A wall of glassy soil folded like paper, swallowing the wreckage, the wrecked drones, and the echoing hum of the Aether field.
Marc looked down through the open door. The crater sealed itself, the molten glass cooling into a dull, lifeless mirror. The glowing lines winked out, one by one, until only smoke rose from the ruin.
Xian barked orders in Mandarin, voice lost to the wind. The helicopter veered west, engines straining.
From the air, the containment barriers unfurled—a grid of drones and plasma pylons linking into place, sealing an area vast enough to house a small city. The lights burned red against the dimming horizon.
Howard stared out the window, breath fogging the glass. "We nearly died down there," he murmured. "You saw that thing moving under us. You felt it."
Marc said nothing. His hands trembled against his knees. The weight of the jetpack slung over his shoulder felt heavier now, alive somehow.
---
They landed at a quarantine site hours later. White tents flapped in the wind, floodlights turning the dirt into silver. Men in hazard suits moved like insects, spraying decontamination foam and ushering the team through sterilization tunnels.
The first blast of cold antiseptic hit Marc's skin like needles. They scrubbed him, scanned him, stripped his gear away for analysis. For a moment, he thought he saw a faint violet shimmer leaking from his veins before the spray dimmed it.
He changed into clean fatigues, the fabric rough and foreign. Across the tent, Howard emerged from another sterilization chamber, hair plastered to his forehead, eyes hollow with fatigue.
Marc broke the silence first. "What now? The area's done for. It's like… a rift."
Howard nodded, rubbing his eyes. "Yeah. Whatever that was, it's sealed now. But I can't shake the feeling that it's still… alive. You know, like a wound that closes too fast." He gave a weak laugh. "Aetherians. I've always liked them, but their history's a mess. Humans never recorded it properly. When we finally had a language, we turned everything into myth. Gods and crypts and prayers."
Marc forced a half-smile. "Yeah."
But inside, Tecciztecatl stirred. Something was meant to happen there, the god whispered. The rift closing was only an ending for them, not for us.
Marc frowned. You said even you couldn't change fate.
The god's silence stretched, then softened. Sometimes a lie strengthens the arm that must strike. You are not done yet.
Marc clenched his jaw. He knew manipulation when he heard it—but part of him still wanted to believe.
Later, in his tent, he checked the news feed from London on a tablet. The headline glared:
THIRD HEARTLESS BODY FOUND — POLICE URGE CALM
The image beneath was blurred, but Marc didn't need clarity. He recognized the alley, the layout, the method. William's signature was all over it, even if the press didn't see it.
He frowned. He should be there, not trapped halfway across the world staring at reports and soil samples. London needed him.
Tecciztecatl's voice whispered again, gentler now. You must learn to see what hunts from the other side before you fight what hunts at home.
Marc didn't answer. He simply switched off the screen.
---
The next morning, Sergeant Xian was already awake, his men gathered in quiet clusters. The PLA contingent moved efficiently, but there was a stiffness in the air. Marc recognized it—the kind of tension soldiers had when orders came from somewhere higher than their pay grade.
As Marc walked past, he caught fragments of Mandarin: "record everything," "monitor both," "headquarters wants confirmation."
He met Xian's eyes. The sergeant smiled, polite, unreadable. "Breakfast is ready," he said in English. "You and Mr. Howard will debrief with command in one hour."
Marc nodded but didn't move. He could feel the attention. The weight of cameras, the faint hum of audio transmitters. His hearing, heightened by the god's power, picked up the whispers inside the soldiers' headsets. They were watching him and Howard.
He found Howard outside, tinkering with a broken drone. "They're spying on us," Marc said quietly.
Howard glanced up, unsurprised. "Of course they are. You glow in the dark when you're mad, Marc. They'd be idiots not to."
Marc stared at him. "And you're okay with that?"
Howard grinned, eyes gleaming. "Not really. But I've got an idea. We feed them the wrong story."
Marc raised a brow. "Fake intel?"
"Exactly. You talk about Aetherian technology like it's unstable, dangerous to handle. Say it's decaying. Make them think the site's useless."
Marc considered it, then smiled for the first time in days. "That's actually a good idea."
They both laughed—quiet, brittle, but real.
---
That night, the camp's floodlights painted everything sterile white. Xian's team listened through their hidden recorders as Marc and Howard "argued" over false theories.
Howard's voice carried perfectly. "You're wrong, Marc! Aetherium can't be harvested. It's gone inert. Completely dead!"
Marc crossed his arms, playing the part. "Then explain why your drones exploded the moment they made contact!"
Outside the tent, two soldiers exchanged uneasy glances. One whispered, "They're arguing about the material being toxic."
The other frowned. "Then why is command so interested?"
Inside, Marc caught the faint hum of their transmitters. He smirked slightly. "You know," he said under his breath, "they're eating it up."
Howard chuckled. "You're welcome."
When the soldiers finally left their posts, satisfied, Marc dropped the act.
"Now we wait," he said. "They'll pull back for safety. Gives us time to analyze what's left of your drones."
Howard's grin faded as he powered down his equipment. "Marc, can I ask you something?"
"Shoot."
"Back there, in the crater—you touched that jetpack like you'd seen it before. Like it recognized you."
Marc hesitated. "I don't know what I saw."
"Right." Howard smiled thinly. "And I don't know why you're still alive when everyone else who went near that field is in a med-bay puking blood."
Their eyes met across the low light of the tent.
Marc looked away first. "Get some sleep, Howard. Tomorrow we go home."
When he stepped outside, the moon was full, hanging like an open wound over Enttle. The god inside him murmured, He is clever. If he learns too much, you will have to choose: friend, or witness.
Marc exhaled, the desert wind pulling at his hair. "I'm tired of choices," he whispered.
Then make the one that leaves you standing, Tecciztecatl said.
Marc looked toward the sealed horizon where the rift still glowed faintly beneath the earth. Something inside it pulsed—a memory, a machine, a thing that wanted to wake.
He had survived the war once. Now, it felt as if the war had followed him home.