The final approach to The Zenith Tower was a calculated exercise in risk management. Lyra, The Navigator, proved indispensable. Her stolen data allowed them to move through the city centre not as targets but as ghosts, weaving through the blind spots of the recovering Capture Net.
The Tower itself was an ethereal nightmare—a gleaming spindle of white steel and celestial alloys that seemed to defy gravity. Every visible surface pulsed with sanctified energy, a silent declaration of Seraphiel's absolute authority.
"The tower's lower defences are focused on aerial assault and external perimeter guards," Lyra whispered into the tactical comm unit, her voice tight with focused adrenaline. They were navigating a narrow maintenance duct beneath the main street, directly beneath the tower's foundation. "He doesn't guard the flaw because he doesn't believe it exists."
The flaw, according to the Cathedra's black ledger, was the Power Grid Junction Box—the ancient, pre-Fall relay that fed ancillary power to the celestial structure. It was too mundane, too low-tech for Seraphiel to consider a weak point.
They emerged into a small, dark access vault, the air humming with an immense, barely contained electrical force. The Junction Box was a massive, sparking relic of a bygone age, patched haphazardly into the tower's gleaming base.
The Saint felt the power of the structure—a cold, indifferent weight of angelic surveillance. He registered the presence of specialised aerial units: Chorale Drones, agile shield-bearing craft that deployed a sonic frequency designed to disrupt an inner celestial core.
"The Chorale Drones are deploying at the first sign of an energy spike," the Saint reported, his gaze fixed on the reinforced wall separating them from the junction. "They'll use their sonic disruptors. I must be fast."
Lyra nodded, her own attention glued to the data streams. "The box has a two-layer defence. A low-grade digital firewall—I can manage that. And a pressure lock. The sonic frequency is based on the pressure lock's integrity."
"The goal is simple," the Saint affirmed, his voice low and intense, his focus entirely on the massive task ahead. "We use the junction box to drain the core power of the foundation—the Power Grid Sink. The overload will shatter the pressure lock and momentarily disable the sonic dampeners."
He unsheathed the unified blade. The mixed light of Sanctus and Veritas—Judgment and Truth—was the only weapon that could handle the immense, corrupting power transfer without instantly disintegrating.
"The risk is catastrophic," the Saint admitted, his gaze locking with hers. "To sink that much energy into my core—even for a moment—will push the seal to its absolute limit. If the flux is too great, the seal will fail. I will shatter."
Lyra stepped forward, placing her hands on the cold, spiritual alloy of his armour. This time, she didn't wait for his permission. She needed to fortify him for the sacrifice.
The forbidden flame erupted—an intense, searing agony that slammed into his core, followed by the deep, stabilising mend of the Fragment. It was a pre-climax renewal, a desperate measure that pushed both of them to the edge.
"Then you take all of my strength, Azael," Lyra commanded, her eyes locked on his silver gaze, their faces inches apart in the darkness. "You will not shatter. You will use the paradox. You will use the pain to anchor the power, and you will use the power to end this war."
The Saint held her gaze, accepting the agonising, life-giving truth of her words. He would do this for her, and in doing so, he would finally earn his own peace.
"Now," he stated, pulling back, the core stabilised for its final, terrifying effort.
Lyra moved to the junction box's digital interface. Her fingers flew across the modified celestial comms unit, executing the digital breach with surgical speed.
"Firewall bypassed! Pressure lock exposed!" Lyra yelled. "You have three seconds before the system auto seals!"
The Saint slammed the tip of the unified blade into the exposed junction box.
The ensuing energy transfer was not a spark; it was a catastrophe. The Saint's massive body became a perfect conduit. He used the white light of Veritas to find the purest energy and the crimson light of Sanctus to absorb the corrupting overflow.
He pulled the immense, screaming power of the city's ancient grid into his core. His body arched, his muscles screaming against the flood of raw electrical and spiritual force. He felt the terrifying swell, the near-blinding moment where the seal was inches from absolute failure.
For Lyra. For the truth.
The Power Grid Sink completed in an agonising two seconds.
The entire Zenith Tower groaned, a sound of vast, structural agony. Lights flashed, alarms blared, and the junction box exploded in a shower of sparks. The sonic dampener pressure lock failed spectacularly.
The Saint ripped the blade free, staggering back, his core sealed but screaming with the internal trauma of the impossible power transfer. He was alive, whole, but the effort had nearly consumed him.
"Breach successful!" Lyra shouted, already moving toward the smoking hole in the wall caused by the surge. "The main ventilation shaft is open!"
"The Chorale Drones," the Saint rasped, forcing himself to move. "They will be here in moments."
They plunged through the smoking hole and into a vast, vertical ventilation shaft. Above them, the first deployment of the Chorale Drones shrieked into the shaft, their shields activating, their sonic frequencies beginning to deploy.
The Saint and Lyra began their final, vertical ascent, climbing toward Seraphiel's throne. The entire tower was now flashing with red alarms, a visible monument to their successful, desperate infiltration.
The final confrontation had begun.