Garth came home the way wounded men always did—half stubbornness, half gravity.

  He teleported into the outer corridor of HQ with his jaw clenched and his shoulders held too square, like posture could lie to pain. The protective wrappings around his ribs were already darkening. His left arm hung a little too loose at his side. His boots left faint smears where blood had seeped through the emergency sealant.

  He made it three steps before his knees tried to fold.

  A hand caught his elbow.

  Alisa.

  She looked like she’d been made of sleeplessness and willpower—hair pulled back hastily, eyes rimmed red, the kind of pale that came from eating too little and worrying too much. The moment she saw him, relief hit her face so hard it almost looked like anger.

  “You’re back,” she whispered, like saying it too loud might make him vanish.

  Garth’s mouth tried to form a smile. It came out crooked. “Yeah.”

  Alisa didn’t let him say more. She wrapped her arms around him and held on like she’d been drowning.

  Garth’s chest tightened—not from the injury this time.

  “I’m sorry,” he said quietly.

  Alisa pulled back just enough to look at his face. “Don’t.”

  “I left,” Garth said. “I didn’t— I didn’t think. I just—”

  Alisa’s hands trembled as she touched his cheek, gentle as if he might break. “I know why you did it,” she said. “But you don’t get to keep doing it.”

  Garth swallowed, throat thick. “I didn’t realize how cruel it was.”

  Alisa’s eyes flashed. “Cruel to who?”

  “To you,” Garth said. “To the one I love.”

  Alisa’s breath hitched. She pressed her forehead against his for a moment, a small, desperate gesture that felt like a promise and a warning at once.

  “Stay,” she whispered.

  Garth closed his eyes.

  In his mind, the desert returned—the crack of the Soul Staff, Heroko’s unbound aura, the way the fight had ended with Garth running again. He could still feel the artifact’s head piece through the protections, like a sleeping threat pressed close.

  He’d told himself leaving was necessary.

  He hadn’t admitted how much leaving was also easier.

  Easier than watching fear in Alisa’s eyes. Easier than feeling responsible for her pain.

  Garth opened his eyes.

  “Okay,” he said. “I’ll stay.”

  Alisa’s shoulders sagged with a relief so intense it nearly collapsed her. Then she straightened immediately, all practicality snapping into place.

  “Medical wing,” she ordered, gripping him more firmly. “Now. No arguing.”

  Garth gave a weak, obedient nod, and let her guide him down the corridor.

  Alisa didn’t leave his side.

  Not once.

  Two levels away, Mino stood in a bright assessment room trying not to feel like a specimen.

  The walls were lined with instruments that hummed softly—vavic readers, field stabilizers, containment panels. The floor had faint circles etched into it, like training targets but more clinical.

  Marten sat behind a console, hands folded, calm in the way he always was—calm like a man who treated disasters as paperwork.

  Zach leaned against the wall near the door, arms folded, expression neutral but eyes alert.

  Mino shifted her weight, ears twitching. “So this is… a test.”

  “It’s an assessment,” Marten corrected. “We need to quantify your control, output, and stability.”

  Mino’s jaw tightened. “So… a test.”

  Marten’s mouth twitched as if he appreciated the stubbornness. “Yes. A test.”

  He tapped the console, and a series of floating discs rose from slots in the floor—metal targets with sensor rings.

  “Demonstrate three levels,” Marten said. “Minimal output. Moderate. Focused strike.”

  Mino swallowed.

  Zach’s voice cut in gently. “You’ve done this in training. Same rules. Breathe. Name it. Direct it.”

  Mino nodded once and lifted her hands.

  Minimal output came first. She pushed a disc a few inches, steady and controlled.

  Marten watched the readings without expression. “Good.”

  Moderate output. The disc slid across the room and stopped precisely where the target ring glowed.

  Marten’s eyes flicked to the console. “Good.”

  Focused strike.

  Mino hesitated. The last time she’d focused anything, she’d killed the mind-talker with a beam and felt the ember inside her purr like a satisfied predator.

  Zach didn’t move, but his gaze steadied her.

  Mino inhaled.

  Scared.

  Determined.

  I choose.

  She raised her hand, shaped the energy, and released a thin beam that struck the center of the final disc. The sensor ring flashed bright green.

  Marten nodded once. “Controlled. Improved. And your vavic signature isn’t spiking the way it did during the assault.”

  Mino’s chest loosened slightly. “So… I passed.”

  “You’re functional,” Marten said. “Which is better than many.”

  Mino glared. “That’s not a compliment.”

  Marten looked up, calm. “It’s the highest one I can give honestly.”

  Zach snorted quietly.

  Marten tapped the console again. “You’re cleared for field exposure—limited. With supervision.”

  Mino’s heart kicked. “A mission?”

  Zach straightened slightly. “A small one.”

  Mino tried to keep her voice steady. “Okay.”

  Marten’s gaze moved to Zach. “Take her. Keep it clean. No heroics.”

  Zach’s mouth twisted. “My favorite kind.”

  Marten’s eyes sharpened. “I mean it.”

  Zach’s expression sobered. “So do I.”

  The mission was almost insultingly simple.

  Which didn’t make it feel safe.

  Mino and Zach walked through a neighborhood that looked like it wanted to pretend mededians didn’t exist—trim lawns, clean sidewalks, people looking away from anything messy.

  A small crowd had formed near a park entrance. Teenagers—high-school age—shouting.

  And at the center of it, a boy with bruised knuckles and wild eyes stood over another kid who was curled up on the pavement. Three bigger kids backed away, one holding his cheek, eyes wide with shock.

  “Stay back!” the bruised-knuckle boy shouted. “I’ll kill you!”

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  Mino’s ears flattened. She could smell adrenaline and fear like it was smoke.

  Zach stepped forward with his hands visible. “Nobody’s killing anybody.”

  The boy whirled, eyes snapping to Zach—and then to Mino.

  He flinched when he saw her ears.

  Something in his face shifted from rage to shame and back to rage again.

  “You with them?” he spat, gesturing at the bullies.

  “No,” Mino said, voice tight. “We’re with ‘stop.’”

  The boy’s breathing hitched. He looked at the kid on the ground—then at the bullies—then at Mino again, like he didn’t know what to do with someone who wasn’t laughing at him.

  “They—” he choked. “They were—”

  Zach’s voice stayed calm. “Hurting you.”

  The boy swallowed hard.

  Mino took a careful step forward, remembering Zach’s rule about not feeding anger.

  “You fought back,” she said softly.

  The boy’s eyes shone. “I didn’t mean to— I just— I heard something in my head. Like it said do it. And then my hands—”

  Mino’s stomach turned. That sounded too familiar.

  Zach’s gaze sharpened. “Did you find anything? A stone? A fragment?”

  The boy blinked. “I… I picked up something behind the gym yesterday. It was shiny. I thought it was just… cool.”

  Mino felt the ember inside her stir, uneasy.

  Zach exhaled slowly. “Okay. Listen to me. You’re not evil. You’re overloaded. And you’re going to come with us before you hurt someone by accident.”

  The boy’s face crumpled. “Am I going to jail?”

  “No,” Mino said quickly, surprising herself with how fierce it came out. “You’re going to get help.”

  Zach glanced at her—approval flickering briefly—then looked back at the boy.

  “Hands where I can see them,” Zach said. “Slow.”

  The boy obeyed, shaking.

  Mino moved closer, keeping her energy quiet, contained. The bullies stared, suddenly unsure whether to run or apologize.

  Zach flicked a glance at them. “Go home. And if I hear your names connected to this again, you’ll wish you’d gotten detention instead.”

  The bullies scattered like startled birds.

  The bruised-knuckle boy didn’t move. He just stood there with his hands raised, breathing hard, tears sliding down his face because he couldn’t hold them in anymore.

  Mino understood that too well.

  Zach placed a dampener cuff around the boy’s wrist—gentle but firm. “Good. We’ll sort it out.”

  Mino watched the boy’s shoulders sag in relief.

  It should’ve felt like a win.

  But the phrase I heard something in my head wouldn’t leave her.

  Because this time…

  it didn’t sound like a spirit.

  It sounded like someone was talking back.

  Heroko didn’t hunt like an animal.

  He hunted like a verdict.

  He walked into trouble the way a storm walked into a town—inevitable, uninterested in permission. The broken pole segment of the Soul Staff hung at his side now, wrapped in cloth that couldn’t quite hide the heaviness in the air around it.

  He followed the pull of vavic the way wolves followed blood.

  That’s how he found Luther.

  It started as a roadside incident, the kind that usually became a footnote in a report: a small crater punched into the shoulder of a highway, emergency lights flashing, police officers trying to keep order while a crowd gathered at a distance.

  Except the police lights were scattered now—red and blue strobes flickering across bodies that lay too still.

  Punk mededians—young, reckless, hungry—were bleeding out near the crater. Some were already dead. Some were dying.

  And Luther stood among them, calm as a priest.

  He was tall, broad enough to look like a wall, wearing simple gear that showed no allegiance to any faction. His hair was tied back. His eyes were tired but steady.

  In his hand was a sword unlike any Heroko had ever seen.

  It didn’t look ornate. It looked… clean. Purpose-built. Its blade held a faint pale sheen, like moonlight that refused to fade.

  A police officer lay on the ground near Luther, throat cut, eyes open in shock.

  Luther knelt beside him.

  Heroko watched, curious, as Luther placed his hand on the officer’s chest and lowered the sword point—not into flesh, but hovering above it like a conductor’s baton.

  The blade pulsed once.

  The officer gasped.

  Air slammed back into his lungs. His eyes snapped into focus. He coughed, choking, alive.

  Heroko’s mouth twitched. “Interesting.”

  Luther looked up without surprise, as if he’d sensed Heroko the moment he arrived.

  “You shouldn’t be here,” Luther said calmly.

  Heroko stepped closer, gaze fixed on the sword. “What is that?”

  Luther rose slowly. “A sword.”

  Heroko’s smile sharpened. “No. That’s not a normal sword.”

  Luther’s eyes flicked briefly to the bodies—both the punk mededians and the revived officer. “It gives what it takes.”

  Heroko tilted his head. “The Sword of Life.”

  Luther didn’t confirm the name, but he didn’t deny it either.

  Heroko’s gaze warmed with predatory interest. “So you can undo death.”

  “Not all death,” Luther said. “Not forever. Not without cost.”

  Heroko chuckled softly. “Everything has a cost. People pretend they’re shocked when they’re asked to pay it.”

  Luther’s grip tightened slightly. “Why are you here, Heroko?”

  Hearing his name spoken by a stranger should’ve felt wrong.

  Instead it felt inevitable.

  Heroko’s eyes narrowed. “You know me.”

  “I know what you’ve done,” Luther said.

  Heroko’s voice softened. “Then you know why I’m doing it.”

  Luther’s expression didn’t shift. “No. I only know that you are.”

  Heroko stared at the Sword of Life again, hunger sharpening. “That blade could fix things.”

  Luther’s voice went colder. “Or break them.”

  Heroko’s smile returned, thin and dangerous. “I’d like to see which.”

  He attacked.

  The broken pole segment of the Soul Staff snapped through the air, pressure swelling around it like a rising tide. Heroko’s sword followed, precise and lethal.

  Luther moved—fast, but not desperate. He retreated into open space near the crater, keeping distance, using the sword’s pale light to slice through the heavy pressure Heroko threw.

  Their blades met once.

  The impact rattled the air.

  Heroko’s eyes widened a fraction, pleased. “You’re not weak.”

  Luther’s jaw tightened. “Neither are you.”

  Heroko pushed harder, trying to overwhelm, trying to force a mistake.

  Luther didn’t give him one.

  Instead, Luther stepped back again—retreating with intention, drawing Heroko away from the revived officers and the crater fragment.

  Heroko lunged—

  —and Luther suddenly spun, blade flashing, cutting not at Heroko’s body but at the pressure coiling around the pole segment.

  The pale light licked the air like a clean flame.

  Heroko felt the pole segment shudder.

  Not break.

  But react.

  Heroko’s smile faded. “You can touch it.”

  Luther’s eyes stayed steady. “I can cut what’s tied to life.”

  Heroko’s gaze sharpened with something close to irritation.

  Then Luther did the one thing Heroko didn’t expect:

  He disengaged.

  He retreated—not running in panic, but leaving on purpose, moving back along the roadside while the revived officers scrambled after him.

  Heroko stood by the crater, breathing steady, watching Luther disappear.

  The Sword of Life.

  A weapon that could revive the fallen.

  A weapon that could interfere with vavic conduits.

  A weapon that—if taken—could become the cruelest tool imaginable.

  Heroko’s smile returned slowly.

  “Oh,” he murmured. “That will be mine.”

  The crater was bigger than Taco expected.

  It had chewed a hole into the earth like something had taken a bite out of the world. Smoke rose in thin threads. The air shimmered with leftover vavic—faint, but prickly against her skin.

  And around it—

  Enemy presence.

  Not a handful of punks.

  A coordinated retrieval team.

  “Too organized,” Taco muttered, tightening her grip on the new bladed bow. It felt wrong in a good way—heavier, sharper, built for the moment arrows ran out and everything got close.

  Chad stood beside her, frost filigreeing the ground where his boots touched. “They’re not scavengers,” he said. “They’re assigned.”

  Taco glanced at him. “Assigned by who?”

  Chad didn’t answer. His silence did.

  They moved together—an odd pair.

  Taco struck first. An arrow cut the night and dropped a guard before he could call out. Chad followed with a low sweep of cold that seized the soil beneath two more, freezing their feet into place long enough for Taco to put clean shots through them.

  Then it went close.

  One attacker lunged at Taco with a short blade and a grin that suggested he liked making things hurt.

  Taco didn’t give him the space.

  She swung her bow like a staff. The integrated edge kissed across his forearm—red line, instant yelp. He staggered, and Taco stepped in and drove the bow’s lower blade into his thigh. He hit the ground hard.

  Chad slapped a palm down. Ice raced outward and snapped around another enemy’s legs like shackles, pinning him mid-stride.

  The rest tried to regroup around the crater fragment.

  Too late.

  Taco and Chad hit them like a closing trap—arrows and ice, steel and teeth. Plans broke. Bodies followed.

  When the last one fell, one was still alive beneath the frost, chest heaving, blood bubbling at his lips. He coughed and laughed wetly.

  “You’re late,” he rasped.

  Chad crouched, eyes flat with winter. “Who sent you?”

  The man smiled through red. “Doesn’t matter. You’ll report it. You always do.”

  Taco’s stomach tightened. “Report what?”

  His eyes glittered with mean amusement. “The… particular actions.”

  Chad’s gaze sharpened. “What actions?”

  The smile widened—like he’d been waiting for that question. “You’ll see.”

  His head lolled.

  Dead.

  Taco stared down at him, unease crawling under her ribs. “What does that mean?”

  Chad rose slowly and looked into the crater. The fragment sat half-buried in cracked earth, pulsing like a nerve exposed to air.

  “It means someone is moving faster than our protocols,” Chad said, jaw tight.

  Taco tightened her grip on the bow. “Then we move faster too.”

  Chad’s eyes flicked to her—brief surprise, then something like approval buried under caution.

  “Report first,” he said.

  Taco’s mouth twisted. “Fine. But after?”

  Chad’s voice went quiet, and the cold around his boots deepened as if the ground itself leaned in to listen.

  “After,” he said, “we hunt whoever thinks they can schedule the end of the world.”