The trip out of the Deep-Earth Site was quieter, but heavier. The VDC Dropship that extracted them carried not just Kwandezi and Aisha, but the inert body of General Marcus Thorne, sealed in a cooling bag, and the infamous Void-Relic Cannon—now just inert metal, its volatile core transmuted to stable carbon dust by Kwandezi before they left. The silence was a leaden weight, broken only by the hiss of the environmental regulators in their Aegis Suits.
Kwandezi sat rigid, the patch of the Storm-Walker insignia clutched in his hand. He had killed the architect of his suffering, and the emptiness was vast. This is all you have, Host. A moment of satisfaction followed by endless, agonizing silence. He refused to look at Aisha, knowing her empathic gaze would catalog the devastating futility of his revenge.
The dropship delivered them directly to the Chapter 15 Staging Citadel near the Delta region's capital—a towering fortress of rust-red and steel, the Ironclad Family's signature of industrial permanence. They were immediately ushered into a tense debriefing with Captain Zara.
Zara, her face pale but her posture regaining its ironclad rigidity, praised their "efficiency" but was clearly unnerved by Kwandezi. She barely looked at him, addressing only Aisha. "The core is stable. The Geo-Parasite is neutralized. The reports will state Chapter 15 stabilization teams handled the containment. Thorne's treason will be handled at the highest level—by the Banisher legal council. You two are to report for immediate reassignment. The Capital wants the asset closer to home."
"Captain, the briefcase," Aisha said, placing Thorne's heavy, Void-sealed luggage on the table. "It was secured by Thorne for a reason. It must be analyzed by non-Banisher internal affairs."
Zara's eyes narrowed, a flash of shrewd greed crossing her features. "That is VDC property. It falls under Chapter 15's jurisdiction for initial assessment, Operative. The Ironclads handle the assets of treason." She swept the briefcase off the table with a grunt. "Now, get out. You have an extraction window."
Kwandezi didn't move. He sensed the lie, the greedy manipulation that was the hallmark of every corrupt family. He walked slowly to the door. "Captain Zara," his voice was a low, dry rasp. "You're a thief, trading in the lives of the people you claim to protect. Thorne killed my mother for that briefcase, and you want to steal its secrets. Don't be surprised when your Ironclad fortress turns to sand."
He didn't wait for her furious retort, stepping out into the late afternoon bustle of the Citadel's military plaza. Aisha hurried after him, pulling off her helmet.
"Kwandezi! You can't threaten a Chapter Captain! That's treason against the Veil!"
"Treason against the thieves," he corrected, his eyes fixed on the distant, smog-hazed skyline of the Chapter-State's civilian sector. "They are all guilty. I told you, I only killed one architect. The house still stands."
The Void Host's Rage
The extraction dropship was delayed. For two agonizing hours, Kwandezi and Aisha were forced to wait in a segregated, metallic barracks, the air thick with their unresolved conflict.
Kwandezi spent the time in a fetal ball on the floor, the silver bracelets glowing faintly. He wasn't sleeping; he was suppressing. The Void Host was furious—not because of the fight, but because of the emptiness left by the revenge. It needed fuel, it needed chaos, and Kwandezi's rigid control was an insult.
You sought vengeance and found nothing. Vengeance is a human flaw. It is inefficient. Let us use the power for real purpose. Let us unmake this pathetic station.
Kwandezi countered the Host's mental surge with brutal self-hatred. I will use this body until it rots. I will kill until I can't move. But I will not surrender the consciousness that knows what you are—a parasite that feasts on the will of others.
The internal fight was a silent, agonizing war of wills, manifesting physically as sweat beading on his forehead and minute tremors running through his limbs.
Suddenly, the barracks door hissed open. Standing there were two Ironclad VDC Operatives, their Aegis Suits heavily reinforced, carrying specialized Magnetic-Field Batons. They were thick, brutal-looking men who radiated cold hostility.
"Asset Kwandezi," one grunted, his voice heavily distorted by the suit's comms filter. "Captain Zara has ordered a final security assessment. Protocol dictates containment re-adjustment."
It was a lie, a petty abuse of power. Zara was sending muscle to punish him for his insolence.
Aisha stepped forward, her hand already near her holstered plasma pistol. "That is a breach of direct Banisher protocol. The asset is under Capital command."
"The asset is unstable," the second operative countered, raising his Magnetic-Field Baton menacingly. "And the Ironclads do not take threats lightly. Step aside, Empath."
Kwandezi saw his opening. The raw, brutal fight the Host craved. A way to expel the emptiness. He welcomed the pain.
"I need no adjustment," Kwandezi said, rising slowly to his feet. "But I will demonstrate how inefficient your 'Ironclad' containment truly is."
The Transmutation of Will
The first operative, enraged by Kwandezi's calmness, surged forward with a grunt, his Magnetic-Field Baton crackling. The weapon was designed to disrupt electronic signals and kinetic movement, capable of locking a man in place.
The raw power of the Void Host exploded outward, bypassing the silver dampeners entirely. Kwandezi's eyes flared brilliant purple. He didn't dodge. He stood firm.
The Magnetic-Field Baton struck his chest with brutal force. Instead of being stunned, Kwandezi's Molecular Transmutation reacted instantly, not defensively, but offensively. He didn't transmute his own body; he transmuted the weapon into a useless, benign material.
The heavy, metallic baton, designed to withstand immense force, suddenly felt soft and fluid in the operative's hand. In the split-second of impact, Kwandezi had transmuted the steel alloy of the baton into low-density sodium carbonate—simple table salt—which instantly vaporized into harmless dust.
The operative stared at the empty space where his weapon had been, confusion warring with terror on his face.
Kwandezi struck next. This was raw, agonizing brutality. He didn't use his swords or a kinetic blast. He used his hands, focusing the power directly onto the operative's Aegis Suit.
He grabbed the operative's armored shoulder. With a sickening sound of shearing bonds, Kwandezi focused his power, not on the metal, but on the air inside the suit's shoulder joint. He performed a rapid, minute compression of the atmospheric nitrogen and oxygen into a momentary, super-dense state—a violent, localized explosion aimed inward.
The operative screamed—a raw, muffled shriek of pure agony. The Aegis Suit's shoulder pauldron didn't crack; it imploded into a crumpled mass of ruined composite. The man inside was left instantly paralyzed, his clavicle and shoulder joint pulverized.
The second operative, horrified, staggered back, fumbling for his high-powered Ironclad Plasma Pistol.
Aisha didn't hesitate. She was no longer just the empathic anchor; she was the handler responsible for controlling the collateral damage. She knew the moment Kwandezi entered this state of cold fury, he was aiming for a kill.
"Stop, Kwandezi! You've neutralized him!" Aisha screamed, firing her own Plasma Pistol.
She didn't aim at Kwandezi. She aimed at the second operative's left knee, the unarmored joint of the Aegis Suit. The plasma charge struck, instantly searing through the composite weave and dropping the man with a howl of agony.
The brutal display of Kwandezi's power—the casual transmutation of steel into nothingness and the terrifying molecular implosion—was too much for even the VDC soldiers. They lay ruined, neutralized, but alive thanks to Aisha's intervention.
Kwandezi turned on Aisha, his eyes two burning, accusing purple abysses. "You interfere with the mission."
"The mission is to maintain control and eliminate Thorne's threat, not execute random VDC guards!" Aisha shouted, refusing to back down, though her hands were trembling, not from fear, but from the brutal rage and cold satisfaction that radiated off Kwandezi.
"They are thieves and fools," Kwandezi stated, stepping over the crippled guards, leaving them to their fate. "They are the system that killed my mother. Thorne was only a weapon. The VDC is the hand that wielded it."
He didn't hurt Aisha. He didn't threaten her. He simply walked toward the delayed dropship bay, leaving her to deal with the political fallout.
Aisha stared at the ruined Aegis Suits and the mounds of salt dust, her heart pounding. She had just witnessed the Void Host at its most pragmatic and lethal. It was not a mindless monster; it was a cold, efficient assassin with the power to unmake reality itself. Her role had irrevocably changed. She was no longer just the anchor; she was the co-conspirator, forced to manage the chaos and cover up the trail left by the monster who was trying to save them all. She activated her comms, reporting a "failed security assessment due to unauthorized asset aggression," weaving a careful lie to mask the truth of Kwandezi's power.
The first start of trouble has begun, Aisha realized, looking at the distant silhouette of the Banisher dropship approaching the citadel. We are now fugitives inside the system. Kwandezi was now officially an uncontrollable liability, and the Capital would not be happy. The visit to the next Chapters would be a tightrope walk over the abyss.