"Zephhhh!"
A desperate voice broke through the haze like a dying star's final scream. One of the assassins cried out from down the ruined corridor, blood dripping from his lips as his boots scraped across cracked obsidian tiles.
Zeph turned, heart wrenching into a fist inside his chest, and bolted toward the call, slicing through the smoke-choked air like a ghost on fire.
He arrived… and stopped dead.
The room before him was quiet—eerily quiet. That kind of silence that suffocates, that feels like it has teeth.
Neo lay slumped against the cold, iron wall—alive, but just barely. His chest rose and fell like a dying tide. Cracks ran across his mask, and one eye was swollen shut, leaking blood and something darker.
Tian Yu, proud and untamed, was motionless, arms sprawled across the stone like a marionette with its strings slashed. He looked dead—but Zeph, who had danced with death and slept beside gods, could feel it: a faint, stubborn pulse beneath the skin.
Shiro was breathing—barely. Each breath like glass down his throat. His aura flickered—blue, pale, trembling like a candle's last sigh.
Hlanya… Hlanya was unconscious, but not gone. Her body was covered in a light layer of spiritual frost, a defense mechanism only activated when her subconscious feared complete erasure. She had fought. And lost. But she lived.
And through it all… the atmosphere.
It clung to the skin, heavy and unnatural, like the air itself mourned. This wasn't just a battlefield. It was a wound. And it bled regret.
Zeph stepped forward, soul twisting like a knife in his ribs. Emotions pulsed through him: rage, sorrow, guilt. But none of them were allowed to stay. He inhaled once, deep and slow, and silenced them all.
He turned to his squad's remaining rescue crew, faces pale with awe and fear.
"Your journey ends here," Zeph said, voice calm, but beneath it—the subtle vibration of something awakening. "Get them out. Take the new recruits. Now. Before the Concept Dlump breaks."
No questions. Only nods.
The team mobilized instantly, lifting bodies, securing packs, lighting brief teleport runes. There was no time for ceremony. Only purpose.
Zeph watched them go—Neo, Shiro, Hlanya… Tian Yu.
His gaze lingered on Neo, who managed to lift his hand just slightly, fingers trembling. A silent message.
Don't die here.
Zeph gave a small nod. "At least," he whispered to the empty room, "they're safe."
Then… a whisper of a smirk crossed his lips. It was not joyful. It was not vengeful. It was a crown worn in shadow.
"Now," Zeph muttered, turning back toward the hallway where something stirred behind layers of sealed reality. "Let me show that cockroach what it means to challenge me. What it means… to offend someone above a Trinity."
He strode toward a half-shattered throne—an old chair long forgotten, once used by the founder of the Federation. Dust flew off as he placed a boot upon it and then stood tall, coat flaring like raven wings behind him.
There, in the center of ancient ruins, with agony sealed behind walls of warped concept, Zeph stood.
Waiting.
One heartbeat. Two.
The clock began to tick.
And with a low, malevolent hum, the world began to crack.