The white orchards of the Capital were no longer a paradise; they were a killing field of light and glass. As the blue mana-bolts from the Cloud-Riders rained down, the pristine marble of the outer gardens shattered, sending crystalline shards whistling through the air like frozen shrapnel. The air, once sweet with jasmine, was now scorched by the ozone of high-level sorcery and the metallic tang of Kael Light's weeping blood.
"GO!" Kael roared, his voice cutting through the thunder of the bombardment.
He stood before the silver hatch of the Slip-Runner, his grey cloak billowing like the wings of a vengeful moth. With a flick of his wrist, he channeled a pulse of iridescent starlight into the ground, creating a temporary "Aegis of the Dawn"—a shimmering dome of silver-blue light that deflected the incoming fire.
Pip didn't argue. He grabbed the hands of the two youngest hollow children, while Martha hoisted Elian and the third child onto her shoulders. They moved with desperate speed toward the "Mouth of the Earth"—a concealed maintenance entrance to the city's ancient catacombs, located beneath a colossal statue of the First Founder.
"Don't die, Saint!" Pip shouted over his shoulder, his eyes wide with terror and a fierce, growing loyalty.
"I have already died once, Pip," Kael whispered to the wind. "Today, I just finish the work."
High Overseer Alaric watched the retreat from his golden chariot, his face a mask of cold, ceremonial fury. He raised the Scepter of the Prime Cradle, a staff made of pure, white-metal that vibrated with the frequency of the city's heart.
"Focus fire on the Anomaly!" Alaric commanded. "The others are irrelevant once the core is harvested. Bring him down, or I will turn the gardens into his pyre!"
The dozen Cloud-Riders banked in a perfect, synchronized curve, their turrets glowing with a terrifying intensity. They didn't just fire bolts; they released "Mana-Lances"—sustained beams of kinetic energy meant to pierce the heaviest shielding.
Kael felt the "Stable Agony" in his marrow reach a fever pitch.
THUD-CRACK-SNAP.
His left arm shifted, the bone density increasing until his skin turned the color of bruised obsidian. He didn't just raise a shield. He reached into the very architecture of the Capital.
Oakhaven was built on a foundation of "White Sun" resonance. Its marble was mana-conductive, its gardens tied to the internal grid. To the Academy, it was a city. To Kael, it was a body.
"Ancient Art: The Architect's Reclamation!"
He slammed his hand into the marble walkway. He didn't destroy the stone; he healed it into a weapon. The white marble didn't shatter—it flowed. A massive wall of living stone erupted from the garden, twisting upward like a growing vine to meet the Mana-Lances. The stone absorbed the energy, turning the blue beams into a harmless, glowing moss that spread across the new barrier.
Kael didn't stop there. He used the momentum to vault onto the nearest Cloud-Rider as it dipped low to adjust its angle. He landed on the silver platform with a thud that cracked the hull.
The two Royal Guards on the platform didn't even have time to draw their blades. Kael grabbed them by their breastplates, his iridescent eyes blazing inches from their visors.
"Your Order is built on a theft," Kael whispered.
He didn't kill them. He used a localized "Pulse of Mercy," a frequency of Aura's blessing that temporarily disconnected their internal mana-circuits. The guards collapsed into a dead faint, their armor humming as the magic died. Kael kicked them toward the soft grass below and seized the platform's manual controls.
He slammed the Cloud-Rider's throttle forward, using the vehicle as a battering ram. He smashed into a second platform, the collision a cacophony of shrieking metal and blue sparks. Kael leaped from the wreck just as it exploded, his cloak trailing fire as he descended toward Alaric's chariot.
THEY ARE DESPERATE, KAEL, the God's voice boomed, sounding louder than the explosions. The entity was gorging itself on the chaos, its shadow-essence spilling out from Kael's pores in a dark, violet mist. THEY KNOW THE PRIME CRADLE IS CALLING TO US. IT IS THE ORIGINAL SUN. THE ONE THE WITCH COULDN'T HIDE.
Alaric saw the Blood Weeper descending. He didn't flinch. He pointed the Scepter toward the sky.
"Grand Rite: The Absolute Decree of the Founder!"
A pillar of pure, white light erupted from the Scepter, striking Kael mid-air. It wasn't an attack of force; it was an attack of "Will." It sought to rewrite Kael's identity, to force him back into the role of a "Subject" and a "Battery."
Kael felt his mind being scoured by the light. He saw visions of a sterile, perfect kingdom. He felt the weight of the crown he was supposed to wear as a prisoner.
I am nothing! the light whispered. I am the fuel! I am the Order!
"No!" Kael's roar was a mixture of gold-violet mana and silver-blue faith.
He didn't fight the "Order." He used the "Agony." He channeled the memory of the salt-wastes, the smell of the burning foundries, and the weight of the hollow children into the light. He forced the "Truth" into the "Decree."
The white pillar turned a dark, bruised violet and shattered.
Kael landed on the rim of the golden chariot. The spectral horses shrieked, their translucent forms flickering as Kael's aura touched them.
Alaric stood his ground, his Ceremonial Plate glowing with a defensive radiance. "You are a parasite, Kael Light! You take the peace of a thousand years and trade it for the chaos of a few broken souls!"
"The peace was a lie, Alaric!" Kael lunged, his fingers clawing for the Scepter. "You didn't build a kingdom; you built a slaughterhouse with curtains!"
The two men clashed on the moving chariot. It was a battle of extremes: the High Overseer's refined, mathematical sorcery against the Blood Weeper's raw, primordial instinct. Every time Alaric struck with the Scepter, Kael countered with a strike of "Stable Agony" that cracked the golden platform.
Below them, the city was in a panic. The "Paradise Array" pillars were still smoking, and the sky remained a bruised violet. The "Little Suns" of the Capital—the servants, the laborers, the hidden poor—were looking up. They saw the golden chariot of their god-king being attacked by a figure in a grey cloak.
They saw the "Weeper" and they felt the resonance.
Suddenly, a massive, subterranean vibration shook the Capital. It wasn't an earthquake. It was a heartbeat.
The Prime Cradle had sensed the "White Sun" at its gates.
The white marble of the Great Spire at the center of the city began to glow with a blinding, rhythmic light. The mana-lamps in every house flared to ten times their normal brightness and then exploded. The "Order" was losing its grip on the source.
Alaric stumbled, the Scepter's light flickering. "The... the Prime is reacting. You... you're waking it!"
"That was the plan," Kael said.
He punched the center of the Scepter, the white-metal shattering under the density of the Star-Core. The release of energy was a cataclysm. The golden chariot was torn apart, the spectral horses dissolving into mist.
Kael and Alaric were thrown in opposite directions. Kael crashed through the roof of a high-end conservatory, his body shattering through glass and rare tropical plants. He hit the ground hard, his grey cloak now a scorched rag.
He lay in the dirt of the conservatory, his lungs burning.
THUD-CRACK.
His ribs were a mosaic of fractures. The silver-blue ring in his eyes was dim. He looked up through the shattered glass roof. The Great Spire was a beacon of iridescent light, a needle of starlight piercing the violet sky.
"Martha... Pip..." Kael whispered, his hand digging into the soil.
He felt them. They were in the catacombs, directly beneath the Spire. They were at the door of the Prime Cradle.
But he also felt something else. A new presence.
From the shadows of the conservatory, a figure stepped out. It wasn't an Inquisitor. It wasn't a Guard.
It was a woman in a simple, grey dress. Her eyes were absolute voids, but her face was one Kael knew from the memory-slabs of Site-Zero.
She was the "First Vessel." The mother of the Sun-Blooded line.
"You've done well, child," she said, her voice a hollow echo that bypassed his ears. "But the Prime is not a cradle. It is a furnace. And you have brought the fuel to the door."
She raised a hand, and the soil of the conservatory began to turn to cold, black iron.