The silence in the training hall was heavier than any armor. Dust motes danced in the beams of sunlight piercing the newly cleared sky, illuminating the scene of devastation. In the center, two figures stood frozen in a tableau of mutual destruction. Ragnar and Sir Lancelot were locked in their final stances, their bodies coiled with residual energy. The tip of Excalibolt, its crimson lightning still flickering menacingly, rested against the side of Lancelot's neck, a hair's breadth from his carotid artery. Conversely, Lancelot's holy sword, its golden light dimmed but still potent, was pressed firmly against Ragnar's throat. A single, decisive move from either would be the last for them both.
The collective breath of every knight and aspirant was held. This was no longer a test; it was a historic moment suspended on the edge of a blade.
Then, a sound broke the stillness—a loud, genuine, and booming laugh from Sir Lancelot. The tension shattered like glass. He slowly, deliberately, pulled his sword back and sheathed it with a resonant click. The holy light winked out.
"I acknowledge your strength," Lancelot declared, his voice filled with a warrior's respect and exhilaration. "I must admit, it's been a long time since I've felt this excited. The thrill of a true life-or-death struggle... I had almost forgotten."
Ragnar, his own breathing slightly labored, allowed Excalibolt to dissolve back into crackling motes of red lightning that vanished into the air. He gave a curt nod. "The feeling is mutual. Your power is... formidable."
Lancelot's smile widened. He turned to face the stunned audience, his voice projecting to every corner of the shattered hall. "I am Lancelot, commander of the Royal Knights of Elerion! I hereby recognize candidate Ragnar as an official knight of the Order!" His gaze swept over the crowd, lingering on the senior knights whose faces were a mixture of awe and apprehension. "He has proven his valor and his power beyond any doubt. Remember this day! This is the standard to which we should all aspire!" He then turned back to Ragnar. "Give your all to this kingdom, Ragnar. Protect its people and uphold its honor."
Ragnar straightened his back, his fist coming to his chest in a crisp, perfect knight's salute. The motion was so natural it felt as if he had been born to it. "Roger! I will not disappoint your expectations, Commander!"
With a final nod of approval, Lancelot dismissed him, instructing him to return the next day for the formal knighting ceremony. Ragnar acknowledged the order and turned to leave, his boots crunching on the debris as he walked through the parted crowd, which watched him pass with a new, profound mixture of fear and reverence.
Emerging into the bustling capital, the normalcy of the outside world was a stark contrast to the life-and-death struggle he had just endured. The sounds of merchants hawking their wares, children laughing, and the clatter of carriages filled the air. He wandered aimlessly for a while, the adrenaline fading, leaving behind a deep hunger. His feet, seemingly of their own accord, led him to a small, unassuming corner tavern that smelled of roasting meat and fresh bread.
Just as he was about to enter, a familiar voice called his name. "Ragnar?"
He turned. It was Lyra. She stood there, her storm-cloud hair slightly disheveled but her eyes bright with a similar post-trial exhaustion and triumph. She was still in her mage's robes, which now bore a few smudges of soot and a faint scent of ozone that was strikingly familiar.
"Lyra," he acknowledged. "Your examination?"
A brilliant smile lit up her face. "I passed! They were... impressed. I'm officially an apprentice of the Magic Tower now."
A rare, slight smile touched Ragnar's lips. "Congratulations." He gestured to the tavern. "I was about to eat. Join me?"
Her smile widened. "I'd love to. I'm starving."
They found a quiet booth in the back. The atmosphere was warm and lively, a world away from the formality of the knights' hall or the tower. Lyra chattered animatedly about her test—the complex incantations, the practical demonstrations, the stern but fair evaluation of the archmages. Ragnar listened, his silence not one of disinterest, but of intense focus. He watched her, noting the way her hands moved when she described a particularly difficult spell, the spark in her eyes when she talked about mastering a new form of lightning magic. It was all so familiar.
When their food arrived—a simple but hearty stew and thick slices of bread—a comfortable silence fell. Ragnar ate methodically, his mind working. The resonance he had felt with her on their journey, the identical color and nature of their lightning... it was not a coincidence. The time for speculation was over.
He put his spoon down. The sound was soft, but it carried a strange finality.
"Lyra."
She looked up from her meal, her expression open and curious. "Huh?"
His crimson eyes met hers, and his voice was low, devoid of accusation but filled with an undeniable, pressing gravity. "The power of Voltra. Why do you have it?"
The effect was instantaneous. Lyra's entire body went rigid. The spoon she was holding slipped from her fingers, clattering loudly against the wooden bowl. The color drained from her face, her bright expression replaced by a mask of sheer, unadulterated shock. Her eyes widened, and for a long moment, she simply stared at him, her mouth slightly agape, all the easy camaraderie of moments before frozen solid by a single, devastating question.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The rain of gore had finally ceased. The silence that fell over the abandoned military base was profound, broken only by the dripping of… things from the broken rafters. Noctus hovered in the center of the carnage, the Razorgale scythe still humming with storm energy in his right hand. His left arm was wrapped firmly around Artemis's waist, holding her securely against him. The scene was a bizarre juxtaposition of tender intimacy and apocalyptic slaughter.
Jace, his bone claws retracting, stared at the two with a look of pure, unvarnished horror. "How scary, Noctus!" he managed to stammer, his voice shaky. "That move… it's enough to wipe out an entire horde of high-level mutants!" He then, with a nervous chuckle, added, "And, uh, you should probably pay attention to your… partner. She's blushing!"
Noctus glanced down at Artemis, who was pressed against his side. Indeed, her face was flushed a deep, brilliant crimson, a stark contrast to her usual cool composure. The realization of their position seemed to hit him simultaneously. He quickly descended, his feet touching the blood-soaked ground, and released his hold on her. Artemis stumbled back a step, her gaze firmly fixed on the ground, one hand coming up to nervously tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. Noctus, for his part, turned his head away, studying a particularly mangled zombie corpse with sudden intense interest.
The moment of awkwardness was broken by the approach of Marcus, the leader of Artemis's group. The man looked from the devastation to Noctus with a new, wary respect. "That was… impressive," he said, his voice gruff. "We've been fighting just to survive. You fight to eradicate." He extended a hand. "Marcus. I think our groups cooperating would significantly increase our chances. What do you say?"
Jace, after a moment's thought, nodded. "More hands, more food, better defense. I'm in." He looked to Noctus for confirmation. Noctus gave a single, sharp nod. The alliance was formed.
That night, Noctus stood on the rickety watchtower, looking out over the moonlit, corpse-strewn landscape. The air was cold and clean, scented only with decay and distant rain. He heard the soft crunch of footsteps on gravel behind him. He didn't need to turn; the specific, resonant frequency of her power was as familiar to him as his own heartbeat.
He turned to face Artemis. In the moonlight, her features were sharp, her expression a complex mix of hesitation and resolve. She opened her mouth to speak, but he beat her to it. His voice was calm, direct, cutting through the pretense.
"I thought I should ask you tomorrow morning or find some other private time," he said, his grey-blue eyes locking with hers. "But I guess I can ask you now. You must have noticed. The power we both possess… it's not just similar. It's identical. It's the Tempest power. So, Artemis, how did you get it?"
The straightforwardness of the question, delivered without preamble or aggression, caught her completely off guard. Her carefully prepared words evaporated. Her eyes widened, and the hesitant expression on her face solidified into one of pure, stunned surprise. The secret she had guarded, the mystery of her own power, had just been laid bare by this enigmatic, powerful stranger.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The last echoes of the tremors faded, leaving behind a scene of pure chaos on the stern of the AW-03. Deck plates were twisted and shattered, and several of Edward's bodyguards were groaning in pain or unconsciousness. Edward himself was on his hands and knees, vomiting violently onto the cracked floor, his fine clothes soiled.
He looked up at Gaiard, his face a mess of blood, tears, and sheer, animalistic terror. "Don't!" he shrieked, scrambling backward like a crab. "Don't come near me! I was wrong! I admit it! Please, just let me go!" He stumbled to his feet and fled, his remaining conscious lackeys scrambling after him, their bravado completely shattered.
Tiama, who had stood firm beside Gaiard throughout the quake, put her hands on her hips and let out a disdainful "Hmph!". "What a coward! All talk and no spine."
A slight, almost imperceptible smile touched Gaiard's lips. "It seems so." He then turned to her, his expression turning serious. "Alright. Let's get out of here. The authorities will be here soon. And… I have something to ask you."
Tiama met his gaze, her amber eyes gleaming with a similar intensity. "Oh? I have something to ask you, too."
She led him away from the wreckage, through the labyrinthine corridors of the ship, moving from the grimy, crowded lower decks to the spacious, clean, and opulent upper levels. Her residence was a testament to the ship's brutal hierarchy—a spacious suite with real wood paneling, soft lighting, and a window that looked out onto the endless ocean. It was easily fifteen times the size of his cramped quarters in B-07.
She gestured for him to sit on a plush sofa while she prepared tea from an actual ceramic set, a luxury unheard of below. Gaiard accepted the cup, the warmth seeping into his hands. He took a slow, deliberate sip, the fragrant tea a stark contrast to the recycled water and nutrient paste he was accustomed to.
He placed the cup down on the low table with a soft, definitive click. The pleasantries were over.
"I suspect we are wondering the same thing," he began, his voice a low, steady rumble. He leaned forward slightly, his Crystal power a subtle, grounding pressure in the room. "So, let me ask directly. Tiama, you also wield the Crystal power, don't you? Just like me."
The question hung in the air between them. Tiama, who had been raising her own cup to her lips, froze. Her entire body went still. The confident, almost playful glint in her eyes vanished, replaced by a sudden, deep-seated wariness. Her expression stiffened, the carefully constructed walls around her own secrets suddenly under direct assault.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The heat in the Academy's battle hall was still oppressive, the air shimmering with spent energy. The aftermath of the clash between Ignis's Phoenix Pulse and Flamme's Flaming Serpent had left sections of the arena floor molten and the protective barriers glowing from the strain. The two combatants stood poised, Ignis with the Inferslasher knife still glowing in his reverse grip, Flamme with her whip coiled and ready. The fight was far from over in their minds; it was a symphony that had reached a crescendo and was demanding a finale.
Just as Ignis shifted his weight, preparing to close the distance, a commanding voice cut through the tension like a knife.
"Stop!"
All eyes turned to the observation deck. striding down the steps was a man whose presence demanded attention. He was older, his hair silver, but his posture was ramrod straight, and his eyes held the sharpness of one who had navigated the blackness between stars. This was Alfred, former Space Exploring Officer, legendary commander, and current Headmaster of the Academy. He was also Flamme's adoptive father.
He walked directly onto the scarred arena floor, ignoring the protests of the other instructors. His gaze was fixed on Ignis. "No need to fight anymore!" he boomed, his voice leaving no room for argument. "You have proven more than enough! Your skill, your power, your control under pressure… all of it is far beyond the standard for a new instructor. The decision is made. You are qualified." He then turned his head, his gaze sweeping over Flamme and the other teachers, a silent command for them to stand down. "Come to my office tomorrow morning to complete the paperwork. Now, step back and clear the arena. The other candidates still need to be tested."
The finality in his tone was absolute. Ignis, after a moment's consideration, gave a single, respectful nod. The Inferslasher dissolved into embers in his hand. Without a backward glance at Flamme, he turned and walked out of the hall, leaving a stunned silence in his wake.
Later, as Ignis walked through the neon-lit streets of the city, marveling at the flying vehicles and holographic advertisements, a voice called out from behind him.
"Ignis."
He turned. Flamme stood there, her fiery red hair a vibrant splash of color against the urban night. Her expression was unreadable, a mix of frustration, curiosity, and something else he couldn't name.
"I… have some questions," she said, her voice more measured than it had been in the arena. "If you don't mind, there's a decent place nearby. My treat."
A free meal was a free meal. Ignis shrugged. "Lead the way."
They found a small, quiet noodle shop, a stark contrast to the Academy's formality. They sat at a corner table, the steam from their bowls rising between them. Flamme opened her mouth, undoubtedly to begin a line of questioning about his unorthodox fighting style and the source of his power.
But Ignis spoke first. He looked directly at her, his eyes seeming to see straight through to the Nova power burning within her core.
"I know what you're going to ask," he stated, his voice calm and certain. "And I have the same question for you." He leaned forward slightly, the intensity in his gaze pinning her in place. "Why does the Nova power exist inside you?"
Flamme's mouth, which had been open to speak, snapped shut. Her eyes widened in sheer, unadulterated shock. All the questions she had prepared, all the accusations and probes, were rendered utterly meaningless by this one, direct, and impossible query. She could only stare, her mind reeling, as the stranger across from her named the very core of her being.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The practice hall of the International Ranker Association looked like the heart of a glacier. The collision of absolute cold from Friz's Hailstorm Blast and the concentrated fury of Friya's Ice Bullet Barrage had frozen every surface in a thick, pristine layer of white. Contestants in adjacent arenas shivered uncontrollably, their own matches forgotten as they stared at the winter wasteland that had once been a state-of-the-art training facility.
From the shattered observation deck, the murmurs of the high-rankers were filled with a new, profound respect. "Are these really rookies?" one whispered, his breath frosting. "The control… the raw output… they're on par with established International-level Rankers."
In the center of the frozen arena, Friz and Friya stood facing each other, their postures relaxed but their eyes still locked in a silent battle of wills. The air between them was so cold it seemed to crackle.
Friz was the first to break the silence. His voice was calm, logical. "I think we should stop. Continuing to fight is not a good idea. This facility has sustained enough damage, and our purpose here was evaluation, not mutual destruction."
Friya's gaze swept over the destroyed barriers and the frozen, terrified faces of the other applicants. After a moment's consideration, she gave a single, sharp nod. "Agreed."
The tension dissipated. They left the arena separately, going through the post-test assessments. The examiners, still shivering, were almost apologetic as they stamped Friz's file with an 'S-Rank' classification, explaining that higher tiers required authorization from the continental board. Friz accepted the designation without comment.
As he exited the massive headquarters of the Association, the relatively warm outside air felt like a furnace. He took a deep breath, and his eyes fell on a familiar figure leaning against a lamppost a short distance away. It was Friya.
They exchanged a silent nod of acknowledgment. Friz gestured to a sleek, modern café across the street. "Coffee?" he asked.
Friya considered for a moment, then nodded. "Sure."
They found a table by the window, the silence between them comfortable yet charged with unspoken questions. After their drinks were served—a black coffee for him, a frothy, sweet concoction for her—Friz took a sip and then looked at her, his pale blue eyes utterly calm.
"The Blizzard Power," he said, his tone conversational yet carrying an undeniable weight. "How did you acquire it?"
The cup of coffee froze halfway to Friya's lips. Her entire body went still. Her eyes, wide and shocked, locked onto his. The simple, direct question had bypassed all her defenses and struck at the very mystery of her existence.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The serpentine roots held the barbarians fast, their frantic struggles only serving to tighten the unyielding grip of the living wood. Heim watched them dispassionately, his grip on the Logbuster mace firm. With a slight flex of his will, the roots constricted further. A few of the primitives, their airways crushed, gasped and lost consciousness, causing their comrades to scream in renewed panic.
A frown of distaste crossed Heim's face. This was not unification; this was mere extermination. He relaxed his will, and the roots ceased their tightening, simply holding the barbarians in place. He took a step forward, his green aura pulsing with a low, threatening light. He didn't know if they understood his language, but he would make his meaning clear.
"Go away," he uttered, his voice low but carrying an impossible authority. The words were infused with his Jungle power, radiating a murderous intent that was as primal and terrifying as the forest itself. It was a predator's final warning.
The effect was instantaneous. Not only the captured barbarians, but every creature hiding in the surrounding foliage, felt a primal fear seize them. This was not a man; this was the spirit of the forest itself, and it was displeased. With cries of sheer terror, the barbarians still conscious redoubled their efforts, and this time, as if Heim's will had weakened the roots, they managed to break free. They didn't look back, scrambling over each other to flee into the deep woods, vanishing within moments.
Heim watched them until the last sound of their flight faded. Only then did he turn his attention to Flora, who was still held securely in his left arm. He simply opened his arm, letting her drop the short distance to the forest floor. She landed with a soft thud, her face flushed a deep red. The embarrassment of being held so intimately, combined with the terror and awe of the battle, had left her flustered and disoriented.
Heim gave her no time to recover. He looked down at her, his expression no longer that of a wandering traveler, but of a ruler demanding answers. His tone was slow, each word measured and layered with an undeniable authority.
"I've felt it was strange since we met," he stated. "The resonance. The familiarity. But let me confirm it now." He took a single step closer, his presence overwhelming. "Flora. You also wield the Jungle power, don't you? Just like me."
The question cut through Flora's embarrassment like a knife. The blush on her cheeks vanished, replaced by a pallor of pure panic and confusion. Her eyes widened, darting around as if looking for an escape, any answer she might have had dying in her throat before it could form.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The rain of light was both beautiful and merciless. The Aurora Shower fell upon the group of ambushing players, their screams cut short as shafts of pure energy pierced their digital forms. They flickered and dissolved into columns of disintegrating data. The giant python, a masterpiece of the game's programming, thrashed under the relentless downpour, its body becoming a pincushion of light until it, too, could no longer maintain its form and vanished in a flash of code.
Alstar watched it all with detached calm. As the last light arrow faded, he willed the Brightsparrow bow to dissipate into motes of golden light. He then turned to Alexandrite, who was leaning against the canyon wall, tending to a leg injury sustained during the initial stun grenade attack.
"It seems we have secured the water source," he stated matter-of-factly.
Alexandrite let out a shaky breath, a grin spreading across her face despite the pain. "Yeah… we did. And if you don't mind playing the hero a little longer, could you help me over there? My leg's not exactly cooperating."
Without a word, Alstar moved to her side and scooped her up in a princess carry for the second time that day.
"Again?" Alexandrite yelped, though she made no move to struggle.
He carried her to the edge of the clear spring and set her down gently on a flat rock where she could wash and drink. He then turned his back, giving her privacy, and climbed to a higher vantage point on the cliff. He sat, looking out at the digital horizon, the two setting suns casting long shadows across the canyon.
After a few minutes, he spoke, his voice calm and clear, carrying down to her as she bathed her injured leg in the cool water.
"How did this virtual world invade reality?" he asked.
There was a pause from below. "I don't know," Alexandrite replied, her voice echoing slightly in the canyon. "I… I just came to this world not long ago, too. It was just… here."
"Is that so," Alstar mused, his tone suggesting he had expected that answer. Then, with the same logical detachment, he added, "Then it's not so strange that the Gamma power exists inside you."
The sound of splashing water stopped abruptly.
From below, there was a sharp, startled gasp. "What?!"
Alstar didn't turn around. He didn't elaborate. He simply sat in silence, staring at the horizon. But his silence was more deafening than any explanation. In the water below, Alexandrite sat frozen, her mind racing. The casual, certain way he had named her most deeply hidden secret, the power she hadn't even actively used, sent a wave of dizziness and shock through her. How could he know?