The Research & Intelligence headquarters in Hydros did not resemble the rest of the Sanctuary.
Where the training halls were wide and echoing, this building was narrow, deliberate. Corridors ran in straight, calculated lines. Walls of pale stone were embedded with thin veins of dim blue light that pulsed softly, like a restrained heartbeat. The air smelled faintly of ink and cooled metal.
Midarion walked through it alone.
No one stopped him. No one greeted him.
Researchers moved past with tablets of etched glass, murmuring in low, analytical tones. Doors opened and closed without sound. Everything here felt measured—emotion filtered out, reduced to data.
He stopped before a door bearing the sigil of the division.
Viktor's office.
He did not knock.
He entered.
The room was sparse. A long table of dark wood. Shelves lined with sealed archives. A single window filtered daylight through thin crystalline panes that softened the brightness into something colder.
Viktor stood near the window, hands clasped behind his back.
He did not turn immediately.
"I was expecting you," he said.
Midarion closed the door behind him.
The latch clicked softly.
"I want to know," Midarion began, voice level, "why you didn't choose me."
Viktor turned then. His expression was neutral, as always—eyes attentive, not defensive.
"You and I worked effectively," Midarion continued. "As attendant and captain. We coordinated. You trusted me."
"Yes," Viktor said.
"Then why?"
There was no accusation in his tone. No raised voice. Only a question placed carefully on the table between them.
Viktor studied him for a long moment.
"I intended to select you."
Midarion's breathing did not change.
"But," Viktor continued, "shortly before the ceremony, Captain Aelyss issued an order."
He paused.
"All commanders were instructed not to select you."
The room did not shift. Nothing dramatic fractured in the air.
Midarion simply stood there.
For a moment, he did not respond.
The words settled into him, searching for a reaction.
Not selected.
Not allowed.
He felt the initial sting—but it did not expand. It did not ignite.
Instead, something colder formed.
"Captain Aelyss gave that order?" he asked.
"Yes."
"Did she explain why?"
"No."
Viktor did not elaborate. He did not attempt to soften it.
Midarion's gaze drifted briefly to the window. Light filtered through the crystalline panes, splitting into faint lines across the floor.
Of course.
It aligned.
It made sense.
Captain Aelyss had descended personally during the ranking ceremony. She had spoken directly after his classification. She had reframed it.
Growth is proven under pressure.
If she had ordered him excluded, it was not rejection.
It was separation.
A test.
Midarion nodded slowly.
"I see."
Viktor watched him carefully.
"You do?" he asked.
"Yes." Midarion's voice steadied. "She wouldn't issue that order without purpose."
He met Viktor's gaze again.
"She's isolating me."
Viktor did not respond.
"She wants to see what I do without protection," Midarion continued, more quietly now. "Without division support."
A small, almost imperceptible tightening crossed Viktor's eyes.
Midarion felt clarity settle into place.
Being excluded meant she was watching.
It meant he mattered enough to be observed differently.
A separate path.
Not distance.
Importance.
"She believes I can grow," Midarion said. Not as a question. As confirmation.
Viktor stepped away from the window.
"Midarion," he said, tone unchanged, "be careful not to mistake distance for intention."
The words hovered.
Midarion absorbed them—and rejected the implication.
"She wouldn't distance me without reason."
"Perhaps," Viktor replied.
Silence stretched.
Midarion inclined his head once.
"Thank you for answering."
He turned and left without waiting for dismissal.
The corridor outside felt narrower than before.
But his steps were steady.
The days that followed did not change visibly.
Training continued.
Assignments rotated.
Strike Division deployed twice. Defense once. Intelligence remained largely internal.
Midarion trained alone.
He arrived at the grounds before dawn, when the air was still cold and the stone carried the night's chill.
He released his Kosmo and pushed it farther than before.
Longer durations.
Sharper control.
Higher compression.
If the artefact had measured him as Rankless, then the artefact had measured incompleteness.
He would correct that.
Filandra manifested more frequently now.
Her presence coiled around his shoulders in faint, iridescent arcs—visible only to him.
You are forcing your resonance, she murmured one morning.
"I'm refining it."
No, she corrected softly. You are pressing against something you refuse to look at.
Midarion exhaled and tightened his control further.
Sweat traced down his spine. His muscles trembled—but he did not stop.
Other recruits trained in squads nearby. He did not join them.
Their conversations quieted when he approached.
He did not look at them long enough to confirm whether they were mocking him or simply uncertain.
It did not matter.
Growth is proven under pressure.
He repeated it internally until it became rhythm.
Distance is intention.
Filandra's presence flickered, unsettled.
You are building over a fracture, she whispered once.
He ignored that.
Reikika stood in the armory chamber of Strike Division.
The room was quieter than the main hall, but not solemn. It carried purpose—weapon racks aligned in precise rows, armor suspended from reinforced hooks, blades maintained with immaculate care.
She adjusted the fastening at her wrist.
Her blue armor, layered and contoured—not ornamental, but refined. The plating flowed with her movement rather than against it. Thin lines of Kosmo-conductive etching ran along the edges, subtle and elegant.
Functional beauty.
The soldier beside her finished tightening his gauntlet.
He was older than most recruits—late twenties perhaps. Broad-shouldered, posture disciplined. His presence was calm without being passive.
"You move well in it," he said, glancing at her armor.
"It fits," Reikika replied.
He gave a small nod.
"You earned that rank."
She did not respond immediately.
"I will prove it," she said instead.
He smiled faintly.
"That's the right answer."
The briefing had been concise.
Organized criminals operating near Hydros outer districts. Coordinated theft, extortion, civilian intimidation. Intelligence indicated a centralized leader captured long ago and held in the city's prison.
Strike Division would neutralize active cells and ensure the boss remained contained.
Efficient. Direct.
Reikika felt no anxiety.
Only readiness.
They departed the Sanctuary as a unit.
The air beyond Hydros carried dust and distant city noise. Stone roads gave way to tighter alleys as they approached the affected district.
The first engagement was immediate.
Three armed men at a warehouse entrance.
Strike Division did not shout.
They moved.
Kosmo flared in controlled bursts—precise strikes, measured incapacitation. Blades met resistance once, twice.
The criminals fell quickly.
No unnecessary force.
No hesitation.
Reikika stepped forward into the second skirmish without waiting for instruction.
Her movements were clean. Every strike calculated. She did not overextend.
One opponent lunged recklessly.
She pivoted, redirected his momentum, and struck at the precise intersection of nerve and muscle.
He collapsed.
She did not look back to confirm.
The squad captain signaled advance.
Then—
A distant alarm split the air.
Not from the warehouse.
From the direction of the prison.
The sound was sharp and metallic, echoing through the district.
The squad froze for half a second.
The welcoming soldier's expression tightened.
"That wasn't part of the plan," he said.
The captain's jaw set.
"Diversion."
They moved immediately.
The streets blurred beneath controlled acceleration.
When they reached the prison gates, smoke already rose from the inner courtyard.
Guards lay unconscious along the perimeter.
Inside, chaos.
The boss stood at the center of it—unbound, flanked by remaining loyalists.
He was larger than expected. Broad frame, thick Kosmo radiating in dense pulses.
The squad leader engaged him without hesitation.
Their Kosmo collided in a sharp burst that cracked stone beneath their feet.
Reikika assessed instantly.
Second-in-command. Leaner. Faster. Eyes calculating.
Two Strike soldiers moved to intercept him—
"Leave him to me," Reikika said.
They did not argue.
She stepped forward.
The second-in-command laughed once, disbelieving.
"A child?"
Reikika did not answer.
She closed the distance.
Her blade flashed—not wildly, but with precise intention. She forced him backward three steps before he could stabilize his stance.
His Kosmo flared in surprise.
He countered with a sweeping arc.
She slipped beneath it, elbow striking his ribs, blade following through in a shallow cut across his thigh.
Controlled damage.
He staggered.
"You're not—" he began.
She struck again.
Not flashy.
Not reckless.
Every movement stripped space from him.
He realized too late that he was losing.
Within seconds, she disarmed him.
Her blade hovered at his throat.
He froze.
Around them, the remaining criminals faltered as their leader struggled against the squad leader.
The formation broke.
Retreat began.
The courtyard shifted from aggression to collapse.
Reikika lowered her blade slightly—not mercy, but assessment.
The second-in-command dropped to one knee, breathing ragged.
The remaining criminals fled toward the outer gate.
Victory had tilted.
Then—
He moved.
Not upward.
Not forward.
His Kosmo compressed inward.
He suppressed it.
For a fraction of a second, his signature vanished.
Reikika's attention shifted toward the fleeing figures—
The man's hand snapped to his belt.
A massive knife, edge thick and reinforced, pulsed with condensed Kosmo.
He hurled it.
The motion was violent, desperate.
Time fractured.
The blade cut through air in a straight, lethal line.
Reikika turned—
Too late.
The welcoming soldier stepped forward instinctively.
His Kosmo flared—but not fully.
Not fast enough.
The knife struck.
It pierced through his abdomen with a wet, decisive sound.
For a heartbeat, nothing moved.
The blade protruded from his back.
His body absorbed the force before collapsing backward.
Blood spread across his armor.
Reikika stood frozen.
Sound collapsed inward, as if the world had inhaled and forgotten how to exhale.