The conference room was silent until a chair creaked.

  Skrk—

  Snapback leaned back, arms folded, grin lazy but sharp. “So that’s the plan we’ve got, huh? I like it.”

  Seraphina didn’t respond. She pressed a key on the console. “Now to the next matter at hand.”

  The chamber dimmed as the wall display came.

  Bzzt—Static.

  Then—chaos.

  Marseille France burned. Flames rolled through narrow streets while insurgents waving red-and-black banners dragged officials from armored cars.

  Seraphina froze the frame.

  One man in a sterile white coat stood at the center, motionless amid the fire. Three others flanked him—each wearing the insignia of a different Knot.

  Zoom.

  ───────────────

  DR. ALARIC “HUSH” FAUST

  Potestas | Rank 1 | German Division

  ───────────────

  Thin, stooped, bald at the crown with white-gray hair neatly combed along the sides. His eyes were pale and unblinking, dissecting everything before him as though it were already laid open on the table.

  Hiroshi exhaled softly.

  “Dr. Faust… so you’re still kicking, I see. Old friend.”

  The President zoomed in..

  ───────────────

  LUKAS “SCHMERZ” VOSS

  Potestas | Rank 2 | German Division

  ───────────────

  Tall, immaculate, saber resting at his hip, posture flawless. Even frozen, his discipline radiated through the screen—precision given shape.

  Kaito’s expression stayed composed. “Schmerz,” he said quietly. “A man who mistook obedience for strength. We share conviction… but not cruelty.”

  Then the video panned to the third.

  ───────────────

  KURT “BLITZ” WEISS

  Potestas | Rank 3 | German Division

  ───────────────

  The image crackled into focus—young, wild, neon yellow-blond hair flaring like static, daggers mid-motion. Even paused, he looked ready to move again.

  Snapback smirked. “Blitz. Still breathing after the last time we met? Good for you.”

  The screen went dark. The grin faded with the light.

  Only the sound of the projector filled the silence.

  President Seraphina turned back to the table, voice calm but heavy. “The revolutions in France are only the beginning. Potestas has taken its first step… and a big one at that.”

  She let the silence settle again before continuing. “As you all know, we’ve been in contact with the President of the United States. He’s been working quietly to pull his government out from under Potestas control. Because of that decision, his life has become a direct target.”

  She paused, eyes on the table for a moment before continuing.

  “After initial contact, each President of the four facilities believed it to be necessary to dispatch two lieutenants to move in the shadows of his security detail. Coral Gate volunteered to send theirs.The President had no knowledge of their presence—it was a precaution, one we now know was necessary.”

  She pressed another key. The screen shifted to a muted news broadcast: flashing lights, smoke, and chaos around the presidential motorcade.

  “Three nights ago, an assassination attempt took place. The lieutenants intervened, engaging a Potestas Rank 2 agent and several armed soldiers. The President was extracted alive. Both lieutenants were injured but remain stable.”

  Snapback scratched the back of his head, brow furrowed. “Coral… wait, which facility is that again?”

  Seraphina looked up. “The Pacific facility.”

  He blinked, still looking lost.

  Snapback nodded slowly, unfazed. “Right. That one.”

  A faint exhale came from Hiroshi—something between a sigh and the ghost of a grin. Kaito gave a quiet tch, eyes forward. The tension didn’t break; it just shifted back into stillness.

  Seraphina folded her hands behind her back. “Potestas is moving faster than anticipated,” she said. “And if they’re willing to risk open assassinations, it means they’re confident we won’t respond in kind.”

  She took a breath, eyes lifting toward the display again.“France may have been the first spark, but it isn’t the only one.”

  The screen changed—brief flashes of news feeds and encrypted Veritas transmissions: protests, smoke rising over city skylines, riot police in shadowed streets.

  “Unrest has begun surfacing in several regions,” she continued. “The United Kingdom. Germany. Japan. Even smaller pockets in other nations. They aren’t full uprisings yet, but the signs are there—organized protests, targeted strikes, and coordinated rhetoric seeded through social networks.”

  She looked toward Titan, then to Hiroshi.

  “Potestas is lighting fires beneath the world’s foundations, ember by ember. France was just the one they allowed to burn.”

  The images faded from the screen until only the Veritas emblem remained—its golden circle pulsing faintly in the dark.

  “Our intelligence suggests they intend to destabilize the largest democracies first, replacing weakened leaders with their own agents. Every strike, every riot, every assassination is part of that pattern.”

  She turned back to the room, her tone low but resolute.

  “This is the calm before something much larger. We don’t know which way they’ll move next, only that it’s coming. And when it does… the world won’t be the same.”

  The silence that followed was absolute.

  Seraphina’s gaze swept the table once, then lowered.

  That was all it took.

  Chairs shifted quietly across the floor as every captain and director rose to their feet.

  Each raised a left hand to their left breast.

  Palms open—then closing into fists over their hearts.

  Elbows angled outward, a living pattern of light and shadow.

  Heads bowed in unison—not to power, but to purpose.

  A silence filled the chamber—steady, resonant.

  When it reached its peak, the voices became one.

  “Veritas.”

  ?

  Two days passed.

  Only one remained before the tournament.

  ?

  Inside Team Edge’s dorm, the air was thick with silence.

  No one had spoken much since the argument.

  Valor stood in front of the mirror, fastening the strap across his uniform with sharp, mechanical precision. His reflection barely blinked.

  He slung his jacket over his shoulder, stepped toward the exit—

  and slammed the door behind him.

  The sound echoed through the narrow room.

  Mirage sat on her bunk, legs crossed, watching the vibration settle in the glass pane.

  Sync leaned against the far wall, arms folded, eyes distant.

  Mirage exhaled softly. “This won’t work,” she said. “We can’t win like this.”

  Sync didn’t move. “I know.”

  She looked at him. “Then what do we do? He won’t listen. He never does.”

  Sync pushed away from the wall, voice low but steady. “If we’re going to win this thing, we have to be in sync—even with him.”

  Mirage scoffed under her breath . “And how exactly do you make someone like that see his own flaws?”

  The author's tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

  He met her eyes. “If it were that easy,” he said, “Veritas and Potestas wouldn’t be at war right now.”

  Silence lingered for a while.

  Then Mirage stood, brushing a strand of hair from her face.

  Her tone was quiet, but the edge had softened. “Well,” she said, turning toward the door, “let’s go find a way to end this war then.”

  Sync followed, and the door shut behind them.

  ?

  Training came and went.

  The drills were sharp, efficient — mechanical. No one spoke unless they had to.

  When the session ended, Mirage wiped the sweat from her brow and tried, one more time, to close the distance. “Hey, Valor,” she called, voice even but hopeful. “You coming to lunch?”

  Valor didn’t answer.

  He just looked at her — eyes burning, jaw locked —

  then turned back toward the hanging bag.

  His fist struck once. Thmp.

  Then again. Thmp.

  Then harder. THMP.

  Sync sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Come on, Mirage. Let it go.”

  They started walking toward the exit.

  Behind them, the rhythm of punches grew heavier — the sound deep, shaking through the floor.

  FWMP. FWMP. FWMP.

  Then—

  Fffwip—BLAM!

  His Niche snapped awake. Full Throttle.

  Red and blue aura flared around him — rippling like an American flag caught in a wind tunnel, folding and surging with each pulse.

  The air itself seemed to recoil as his next strike landed.

  The bag tore free from its chain—

  SKRANG!

  Crashed against the far wall—

  and burst open in a cloud of sand.

  Valor stood motionless, breath low, the aura flickering around him.

  And as the sand fell…

  the memory rose.

  ?

  The syringe hissed.

  Valor, five years old now, flinched as the needle pierced his arm. The room around him blurred — sterile white walls, monitors humming, other children strapped to chairs. Their eyes flickered yellow for an instant, then dimmed again.

  But Valor’s didn’t just flicker.

  His entire body tensed as the light flared and vanished, leaving his chest pounding.

  A strange pressure built beneath his skin — heat rushing through his veins. Red and blue light rippled around him like a flag in a storm.

  The doctor stepped forward, clipboard in hand. “Subject C-17, response unstable. Increase sed—”

  Before he could finish, Casen’s palm shot forward.

  A shockwave rippled through the room.

  The doctor slammed into the wall, gasping as metal trays clattered to the floor.

  BWAANN—! BWAANN—!

  The alarms erupted.

  Lights flashed red.

  The doctors were finally able to give him a sedative, causing him to dose off.

  That night, a man in a gray coat snuck in — his Potestas badge glinting under the warning lights. But his eyes… they weren’t like the others.

  He dropped to one knee beside Valor, voice low and urgent. “Hello C-17. I’ve been looking for you.”

  Valor's eyes, still drowsy, had a shocked look in them.

  The man in grey continued.

  You’re the one who’s going to bring Potestas down… you’re the one.”

  Valor’s small voice trembled. “I’m the what?”

  “You’re the true prophecy,” the man said, gripping his shoulders. “The prophecy that will save the world.”

  He turned sharply toward the door as footsteps thundered closer. “Shh. Come on.”

  Valor followed the man as they made it outside of the facility.

  Then the alarms blared.

  BWAANN—! BWAANN—!

  The intercom blasted across the facility. “C-17 HAS ESCAPED THE FACILITY. CODE RED. I REPEAT CODE RED!”

  The man turned to Valor.

  I’ve already called my friends, they are waiting for you that way.

  Valor hesitated. “But what about you?”

  The man smiled faintly, calm in the chaos. “For your destiny, I’ll give my life to protect it.”

  He shoved Valor toward the woods. “Now go—run as hard as you can! They’ll be here to save you any minute!”

  Valor stumbled into the bushes, the world spinning. He turned once — just long enough to see the man draw his pistol and step between him and the oncoming guards.

  “Run!” the man roared.

  Valor obeyed.

  The alarms faded behind him as he vanished into the trees, heart pounding, the man’s final words echoing in his head.

  You’re the prophecy that will save the world.

  The memory shattered like glass.

  ?

  His fist unclenched.

  The training bag lay shredded at his feet, stuffing scattered like ash.

  His breathing slowed. The light around him dimmed—red and blue fading back into flesh.

  He wiped the sweat from his face, jaw tight.

  Silence pressed in.

  No matter what the prophecy says…

  I’ll be the one to bring them down.

  The room was silent again—empty, but not at peace.

  ?

  The hall outside the captain quarters was still.

  Soft sounds of ventilation. Polished metal reflecting the blue-white of overhead lights.

  Ayasha and Cael stopped at the door.

  Cael knocked once.

  A voice from inside — calm, low, steady. “You can come in.”

  They entered.

  Ayasha blinked. “Huh. I thought this would be bigger.”

  The quarters were plain — a bed, a steel desk, a rack of training gear. No decoration, no clutter. The faint scent of soap lingered in the air.

  But on the desk sat a single framed photo.

  Titan. Echo. Kaito. Xun. And Brock — younger then, around there age. Brock’s grey hair was gone as he stood behind them with his arms around the four cadets.

  Brock’s grin was wide, mouth open mid-laugh.

  Xun matched it with his own, pure and carefree.

  Kaito scowled toward Echo, sharp-eyed and visibly annoyed.

  Echo stood still and centered, expression calm, that quiet authority even in youth.

  And Titan—barely a teenager—stood tall at the front, chin lifted with a cocky half-smile that radiated confidence.

  Ayasha leaned closer and whispered, “Didn’t take him for the sentimental type.”

  Cael murmured back, “I wouldn’t say that out loud if I were you.”

  Steam drifted from the open bathroom door.

  Titan emerged, towel in hand, drying his head. Bare-chested, wearing black cargo pants.

  He glanced at them. “Something wrong?”

  Ayasha straightened. “It’s Lior. He didn’t come to the cafeteria today. We checked his room—he’s not there.”

  Titan said nothing. He walked past them, set the towel on the desk, and studied the photo for a quiet moment.

  Cael added, “He’s been… different. Ever since the last trial ended. Like he’s here, but somewhere else.”

  Titan nodded slightly, gaze still on the photo. “It only been around two weeks,” he said. “Since his life turned upside down — since people started dying around him.”

  He looked up at them, voice calm but weighted. “When you finally stop moving, the silence doesn’t comfort you. It hunts you.”

  He paused. “Right now, that’s where he is — trapped in that silence.”

  Ayasha crossed her arms, frowning. “I just feel so helpless.”

  Titan turned to her fully. His tone didn’t change — still level, still composed. “You can’t force someone through it,” he said. “You can only stand near enough that when they reach out… you’re the one they find.”

  Ayasha lowered her head. “So what do we do?”

  Titan walked past them, slipping on the black shirt that hung over his chair.

  He slid his arms in it as he moved toward the door. “Do what you’ve been doing,” he said quietly. “Be tbere.”

  The door slid open.

  Titan stepped into the corridor, the sound of his footsteps fading down the hall.

  Inside, the room fell silent again — the photo on the desk catching the soft light, five faces frozen in time, still smiling through the years.

  ?

  The world outside Veritas felt distant.

  Even the wind sounded heavy.

  Lior sat alone beneath the overhang of the outer wall, the night pressing close. The distant floodlights flickered across the training fields, broken by the rhythm of waves and his own quiet breath.

  He ran a hand through his hair and stared at the concrete between his shoes. “Why can’t I shake this?” he muttered. “It’s over. There’s nothing I can do now. So why—”

  A voice broke the stillness. “So this is where you’ve been hiding.”

  He turned.

  Selena stood a few steps away, soft light tracing the edge of her glasses. Her uniform jacket hung open, the faint gleam of a small silver cross visible at her collar.

  Lior straightened slightly. “I wasn’t hiding. Just… needed some air before the tournament.”

  She tilted her head. “You’re a bad liar. I’ve spent four years hiding my emotions. You can’t fool me with that line.”

  He gave a quiet laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “Is it that obvious?”

  “Pretty much.” Her voice eased, and a small smile tugged at her mouth.

  They both laughed once. Soft, quick, almost fragile.

  Lior shifted to sit upright as she walked closer and sat beside him on the bench. For a while, neither spoke. The night breathed around them.

  Finally, he said, “Out of all the people who could’ve been chosen to be the so-called prophecy… it had to be me.”

  Selena leaned back slightly, looking toward the stars beyond the dome’s faint shimmer.

  “Lately,” she said quietly, “I’ve started to think destiny isn’t about who’s chosen. It’s about who keeps walking even when they don’t want to.”

  He looked at her, half-smiling. “That’s pretty good. Where’d you get that from?”

  “From you,” she said while looking at the ground.

  He blinked. “I’ve never said that.”

  “You didn’t have to,” she said. “You showed me.”

  The silence that followed wasn’t heavy. It was warm—like a breath that neither wanted to break.

  After a moment, her hand drifted unconsciously to the cross resting against her collar. The metal caught a faint glint of light.

  Lior noticed. “I’ve never seen that necklace before.”

  She glanced down, fingers brushing it gently. “My father gave it to me before I was taken. He said it would remind me never to forget what I am.”

  Her voice faltered for just a second, then steadied. “I guess I didn’t understand what he meant until lately.”

  Lior smiled faintly. “If I had to live through Team Null for four years, I’d be questioning everything too.”

  That pulled a small laugh from her—one that carried something tired underneath.

  She looked up again, eyes softer now. “You’ve given me something I’ve never had before, Lior.”

  He turned toward her. “What’s that? Friends?”

  She shook her head. “No. Hope.”

  He exhaled slowly, eyes falling back to the ground. “I wouldn’t put too much faith in the prophecy if I were you.”

  Selena rose to her feet, brushing the dust from her jacket.

  “Not hope for the world,” she said, glancing back at him. “Hope for me.”

  Her hand lingered at the cross again, thumb tracing its edge. “Take care of yourself, Lior.”

  Lior watched her go, her silhouette shrinking as she followed the outer path along the wall, disappearing as it curved out of sight.

  The night pressed close, heavy but somehow gentler than before.

  He pushed himself to his feet and started the quiet walk back toward the dorm complex. The gravel shifted under his steps as the path wound toward the interior buildings.

  Inside, Ayasha and Cael were already asleep.

  He watched them for a moment, a faint smile tugging at his mouth, then lay back on his bunk.

  The lights faded to a dim glow.

  And for one fleeting heartbeat, even the memories went still—leaving only silence.

  End of Chapter 41