The stone corridor becomes a living canvas of contrasts. Where Túpac Amaru II steps, shadows stretch and deepen, moving as if alive, drawn to the gravitational pull of his presence. Beside him, Nezahualcóyotl's every movement seems to breathe poetry into the stale air. The flicker of torches isn't just light—it's a dance of reverence, bending to the rhythm of a man who once wrote the sun into song.
The guards' futuristic armor hums with technological precision, energy weapons casting sharp neon reflections on the stone walls. But against these two figures—legends whose defiance once shook empires—technology seems as naive as a child clutching a wooden sword. The squad captain's voice cuts through the tension, cracking under the weight of his fear: "Formation Delta! Hold your ground!"
A pause. The sound of a rifle clattering to the ground echoes like the toll of a distant bell. Another guard, pale beneath his helmet, stammers, "Did you see their health bars? They don't have any!" Another whisper follows: "They're not NPCs. They're not supposed to leave their dungeons!"
Túpac Amaru II takes a single step forward. Shadows coiling around him like a cloak spun from revolution and rage. The leftmost guard, barely more than a kid, squeaks audibly and stumbles backward. The tension snaps like a bowstring. The guards scatter, their precision breaking into chaos, armor clanking as they flee in all directions. The captain's shout echoes down the corridor: "TACTICAL RETREAT! TACTICAL RETREAT!"
Nezahualcóyotl sheathes his blade with a fluid motion that feels less like action and more like art. "In my day," he murmurs, "retreat required at least a symbolic show of courage."
Túpac grunts in agreement, his shadow softening into something almost paternal. "Children these days," he says, watching one guard trip over his own feet. "They make armor that hums but forget to put courage in it."
Behind them, Marcus and Tamalito exchange glances, caught somewhere between awe and exhaustion. Tamalito snickers, the sound quickly stifled by Marcus' still-shaking shoulders. "Should we…?" Tamalito ventures, motioning toward the stables.
Nezahualcóyotl's eyes twinkle. "Yes, let's go steal those wyverns. Although, I suspect they'll come willingly."
As the group approaches the stable doors, the wyverns shift in their pens, their massive forms moving with an almost unnatural grace. The largest among them raises its head, luminous eyes meeting Nezahualcóyotl's gaze. In a movement so fluid it could be mistaken for the wind itself, the creature bows, its great wings folding like a knight paying homage to its liege.
"Magnificent," Túpac mutters, his own wyvern already stepping forward, as if it had been waiting centuries for this moment.
Meanwhile, Marcus and Tamalito exchange wary glances before attempting to approach their respective wyverns. "Ownership is one thing," Marcus mutters, fumbling with the reins. "Riding is something else entirely."
In the corner of his vision, Marcus notices the discarded energy weapons, their neon glows dimming but not fading entirely. A thief's instinct sharpens into something more—an understanding that these tools represent not just wealth, but a future edge. His mind races: the auction house, the patches, the value of being ahead of the curve. "Tactical retreat, huh?" he murmurs to himself with a sly grin. "Your loss, my gain."
Marcus scurries between discarded weapons, his inventory notifications pinging in a relentless symphony. Plasma rifles, photon blades, and even a stray energy shield disappear into his bottomless inventory. "Really?" Tamalito groans, trying to wrangle his wyvern into submission. "We just stole legendary mounts, and you're picking up glow sticks?"
"Waste not, want not," Túpac says, his voice carrying a surprising hint of mischief. He watches his descendant with an amused smile. "Every revolution starts with resources, even if they're glowing."
Nezahualcóyotl shakes his head, already astride his wyvern, his presence merging seamlessly with the beast's movements. The creature glides into the air with the grace of an eagle born to the wind, no reins needed, no commands spoken. "Focus, my child," he advises Tamalito, watching his descendant's wyvern spin him through yet another disorienting barrel roll. "Your poetry needs rhythm; your flight requires the same."
Marcus isn't faring any better. His wyvern seems to take personal delight in ensuring he experiences every possible form of turbulence. Dangling from its neck, he flails wildly, his legs kicking at the air. "I don't think this is how the manual said to do it!" he yells, his voice oscillating between panic and indignation.
Above, their ancestors soar with the calm majesty of gods returned to earth, their wyverns cutting through the dawn clouds like figures from myth. Below them, the sun begins its rise, painting the sky in shades of gold and red—a celestial ode to triumph and freedom. The island beneath them seems to glow in response, a stage illuminated for their daring escape.
Then Marcus spots them: the Brightskulls' guildmaster, Deez, and his squad, cornering Firelez at the edge of a cliff. The hovertrain barrels toward the island in the distance, its sleek form slicing through the mist. Marcus' heart lurches—not just from his wyvern's latest somersault but from the realization that Firelez is pulling off Sky's impossible strategy.
"You stole from me once, Deez!" Marcus yells down, his voice carrying the fervor of revenge. "Now I took what's mine!"
It's a perfect moment—dramatic, bold, and full of righteous triumph.
And then his wyvern sneezes.
The sudden jolt sends him spinning like a leaf caught in a whirlwind. His carefully crafted declaration dissolves into a series of undignified shrieks as he careens around the scene in erratic loops. Below, Deez and his squad stop mid-pursuit, their expressions shifting from determination to confusion—and then disbelief.
"What... is he doing?" one of the guild members mutters.
"Strategic flying!" Marcus yells, clinging desperately to his wyvern's neck. "Very advanced technique! You wouldn't understand!"
From above, Túpac's deep, rolling laughter mixes with Nezahualcóyotl's softer chuckles, their amusement echoing like the playful banter of old friends. Even Tamalito, clinging to his wyvern as it attempts a dive, manages a laugh. "Strategic... sure, Marcus."
Meanwhile, Firelez moves like a shadow through the chaos, his form weaving with perfect precision. His focus is absolute, his every movement a perfect manifestation of Sky's guidance. He recalls Sky's words before the mission: "The hovertrain will pass beneath the island at dawn. Use it as your path. Trust the timing."
As the hovertrain emerges from the mist, Firelez takes his chance. He jumps, plummeting like a falling star toward the speeding vehicle. The Brightskulls' weapons fire wildly, missing by inches, their frantic shouts lost in the wind. In a heart-stopping moment, Firelez corrects his trajectory with his gun, landing perfectly on the train's roof. His silhouette against the rising sun seems almost deliberate—a figure cast in glory, executing a plan only Sky could have conceived.
As Firelez steadies himself on the hovertrain's roof, the rising sun paints him in golden hues, the wind tugging at his coat like an artist adding motion to the scene. The Brightskulls' shouts fade into irrelevance; this moment belongs to him alone.
In a fluid motion, his gun spins around his finger, the barrel flashing once in the sunlight as it completes a perfect rotation. The movement is mesmerizing, like a dance performed for the elements themselves. The weapon doesn't just return to its holster—it glides there, guided by the same unshakable precision that brought him to this roof.
The click of the holster's clasp is the punctuation to his performance, a sound as final as the toll of a bell. For a brief instant, Firelez pauses, his silhouette framed against the brilliance of the rising sun, a hero painted in light and shadow.
And then, with a slight adjustment of his coat and a nod to Tamalito and Marcus watching from afar, he vanishes into the misty horizon, leaving only the echoes of his triumph and the rhythmic thrum of the hovertrain as it disappears into the distance.
Marcus speaks, his admiration briefly overtaking his fear. "How does he make it look so easy?"
Tamalito, still wrestling his wyvern, spares him a glance. "Because he's the champion. And we're… well, us."
Their ancestors descend toward them, their wyverns flying as naturally as breathing. "Your mounts will obey," Nezahualcóyotl assures them, his voice carrying the weight of certainty. "Once they recognize the truth within you."
"And what's that truth?" Marcus mutters, his grip tightening on his wyvern's reins.
Túpac grins, his eyes gleaming with ancient pride. "That you are no longer merely passengers. You are riders—of beasts, of winds, of destinies. Fly like it."
As the hovertrain speeds away with Firelez aboard, the two descendants exchange determined glances. The sun rises higher, its light bathing the island in a new day's promise. It's time to fly—not just away from danger, but toward the future they're beginning to claim as their own.
The roar of wyvern wings fades into the distance, replaced by the low hum of ambient game sounds in the bustling city of the Nereids. Glistening waterways crisscross between floating platforms, each shimmering with bioluminescent flora. Sky walks along a translucent bridge, its surface glowing faintly under his steps. His figure is calm but purposeful, his gaze scanning the horizon for any sign of pursuit.
**
"Mefisto, report," Sky says, his voice cutting through the faint echoes of the floating city.
The comm crackles, and Mefisto's voice comes through, edged with skepticism. "Report? I'm walking toward a glorified warehouse of overpriced exalted couriers, Sky. What do you think I'm doing?"
Sky smirks, his pace unbroken. "Walking with purpose, I hope. You're not just hiring them; you're planting seeds."
Mefisto's tone sharpens. "You're planting something, all right. Why are we even doing this? Spending billions—billions—on some game uniforms. Have you gone senile? I'd never waste my money like this."
Sky pauses at the edge of a platform, watching the Nereids' floating city shimmer under a rising digital sun. "And that's why you're not leading this operation," he replies, his tone light but pointed. "It's not about the money. It's about the message."
"Message?" Mefisto scoffs. "The only message I'm sending is 'Look how much cash I'm throwing away.' I'll admit, I wanted to do this mission to show Tolemaius that I've made it big, but this? Even he'd think it's overkill."
Sky leans against a railing, gazing at the pixel-perfect ocean stretching out below. "You're thinking like a player. I'm thinking like a strategist. Those uniforms aren't just cloth and code. They're access. They're trust. They're a symbol. And symbols, Mefisto, win wars."
Mefisto's footsteps falter for a moment. "Even if it's just game money, this is insane. You're talking like it's life or death."
Sky's voice softens, but the conviction behind it remains unshakable. "For Latin America, it might as well be. This isn't just a game to us. It's a stage where we show the world what we're capable of. If I can spend billions to give you an edge, I will. If it were real money, I'd do the same."
Mefisto exhales, the faint sound of a door creaking open in the background. "You really believe that?"
"I don't just believe it," Sky replies, his voice firm. "I know it. And deep down, so do you."
The line goes quiet for a moment, save for the soft murmur of the Nereids' city and the distant sound of Mefisto's steps on stone. Finally, Mefisto chuckles. "You always know how to sell it, Sky. Fine. I'll play your game. But don't expect me to enjoy shaking hands with Tolemaius."
Sky's smirk returns as he starts walking again. "You don't have to enjoy it. You just have to get the uniforms."
The shimmering streets of the Nereids' floating city blur slightly as Mefisto walks, his thoughts pulling him back through time. His pace slows, each step echoing faintly in the crystalline corridors, as if the city itself acknowledges his inner turmoil.
He remembers the early days with Tolemaius - two wide-eyed players navigating the game's sprawling landscapes. They'd spent endless nights raiding dungeons, not for profit, but for the thrill of the challenge. "I still remember when we beat the Ice Wyrm with nothing but those under-leveled polar bears." Tolemaius had laughed, their small triumph feeling like conquering the world.
That was before the invaders came.
Mefisto's jaw tightens. The invaders had brought more than just competition; they'd brought promises of wealth, both digital and real. To Tolemaius, it was an opportunity - a chance to turn the game into something "meaningful." To Mefisto, it had felt like betrayal. They'd founded M Transportation Company to help players like them - underdogs, dreamers. They'd started with humble cargo bears, hauling supplies across treacherous terrains. It wasn't glamorous, but it was theirs.
And then the invaders changed everything. Tolemaius took their offer, trading camaraderie for contracts, dreams for dollars. Mefisto had stayed neutral, clinging to what little remained of their original vision, even as the company drifted into Tolemaius' hands.
Mefisto's fists clenched as he walked, his pace quickening. Sky's voice crackles through the comm device, breaking his reverie. "You're quiet."
"Just thinking," Mefisto mutters, his tone sharper than intended. "About this whole quantum test. Players already use these devices to raid dungeons. They work fine. Why do you think the invaders can intercept them?"
"Because they haven't tried to yet," Sky replies, his tone calm, deliberate. "They let players believe their communications are secure because it suits their plans. Why attack what's already under their control?"
"That's a hell of a risk to take," Mefisto grumbles. "Trusting me to test it against Tolemaius' guild."
"Not trust," Sky corrects. "Confidence. You know him. You know how he thinks. That's why I sent you."
Mefisto exhales, frustration giving way to a flicker of doubt. "I knew him, Sky. The guy I knew wouldn't have joined the invaders. The guy I knew wouldn't have sold out."
"And yet, you're walking into his guild hall, wearing the scars of everything you've survived since then," Sky says evenly. "You've changed too, Mefisto. Maybe enough to remind him who he used to be."
The words linger as Mefisto approaches the grand entrance of the M Transportation Company's headquarters. The building looms like a palace, its facade glinting with the wealth Tolemaius has amassed. Mefisto hesitates for just a moment before stepping inside, his memories a heavy but necessary weight.
Inside the sleek interface of the quantum entanglement device, the science dances like a symphony of particles: pairs of photons, perfectly entangled, share their states across vast distances. When one changes, the other responds instantaneously, ignoring the limitations of space and time. This was the brilliance Tenza brought back - a communication method encrypted by the very fabric of reality.
Mefisto adjusts the device on his wrist, marveling at the tiny wonder. "A message sent here," he mutters, "and the paired photon sings it elsewhere. No relay stations, no satellites. Just... magic pretending to be science."
Sky's voice crackles through. "Not magic. Physics. The Grand Lodge doesn't need to decrypt the message - they only need to detect it. Even entangled photons leave breadcrumbs if you know where to look."
Mefisto scoffs. "So what's the point if they can track it anyway?"
"They haven't yet," Sky replies, his voice measured. "But we're about to find out if they're ready."
As Mefisto steps toward the grand guild hall, his interface begins to blur. Notifications flood his vision: unauthorized scans, energy spikes, traces of invasive signals pinging the quantum device. His heart races as his field of view narrows, distorted by the intrusive data. He stops just short of the hall's threshold, pulling the device off his wrist like it might burn him.
"They're tracking it," he breathes, the realization hitting like a punch. "Sky, they're—"
"Disconnecting you now," Sky interrupts, his tone clipped but calm. "Switching to low-tech."
Mefisto watches the connection break, the flood of data dissipating like smoke. His interface clears, but the tension in his chest doesn't. He looks at the guild hall ahead, at the opulence that was once the dream he shared with Tolemaius. He takes a deep breath, steeling himself. Sky's right. The stakes are bigger than he imagined.
Across the shimmering streets of the floating city, Sky weaves through the crowd, his pursuers a shadowy presence at the edge of his awareness. His movements are slow but precise, seemingly random but calculated, as he taps out a message on the game's standard interface: Pinchitavo, take one device to the cave. Disconnect from everything else. Use this route. The message blinks twice before sending, programmed to vanish the moment Pinchitavo reads it.
Sky's calm voice echoes in Pinchitavo's ear moments later. "They've compromised the devices. We need crystal resonance to mask the entanglement frequency. The cave has what we need."
"On it," Pinchitavo replies, already sprinting toward the dock. He doesn't ask questions; there's no time for them.
Sky turns into the bustling market, blending seamlessly into the crowd. The stalls are a riot of colors, scents, and sounds, and his pursuers hesitate, scanning the chaos for their quarry. He doesn't look back. There's no time or need. The game's AI feeds him a steady stream of information, every movement calculated to lose his tail.
But even Sky isn't invincible. A notification pings in his peripheral vision: Pursuers narrowing the gap.
"Let's make this interesting," he murmurs, ducking into a stall piled high with shimmering fabrics. He emerges moments later, draped in a merchant's robe, his face obscured by a hood. The pursuers pass him by, their haste blinding them to the player they're hunting.
Pinchitavo reaches the cave entrance, the quantum device glowing faintly in his pack. He hesitates, feeling the weight of the mission for the first time. Inside, the cave hums with an otherworldly resonance, crystals catching the faint light and refracting it into an eerie dance of colors. He steps inside, his breath fogging in the sudden cold.
Meanwhile, in the market, Sky's temporary disguise falters as a sharp-eyed pursuer spots him. The notification pings again: Pursuer identified. Escape route compromised.
Sky moves, faster now, his mind racing. The floating city becomes a maze of possibilities, every turn a gamble. Behind him, the shouts of his pursuers grow louder.