The air near the open rift twisted like heat mirage, distorting reality as the world bled slowly into shades of abyssal purple. The ground pulsed faintly, unnatural veins of Ebonshard cracking through stone and soil, growing like cancerous crystal teeth. The atmosphere had become thick with the screams of Abyssal Crawlers, their chittering shears echoing across the dead fields as endless hordes poured from the rift’s mouth. It didn’t weaken. It didn’t stop.

  Graylock stood unmoved, both hands holding his Twin Judicators, their polished silver frames humming with a steady blue-white glow as the weapons drank ambient Arcane energy. Ready. Unforgiving.

  He stepped forward, boots grinding against the corpses of lesser Abyssal creatures, crunching soft carapace and mutated bone underfoot. Eliza Kane stood nearby, shoulders heaving, still unloading round after overheated round from her Havoc Cannon. The weapon sizzled, vents glowing red with the strain.

  Graylock didn’t shout. He didn’t need to.

  “Can you keep up?” he asked, calm even as the swarm inched closer.

  Eliza snarled, eyes twitching with exertion. “No! Been overrunning this damn thing for an hour. It’s whining like it’s about to cook me alive.Why do you think I called for backup?”

  Graylock gave a tired exhale, almost a sigh. “Fall back. You, and you—” he motioned to two nearby Operatives, “—escort her out. Rest. I’ll handle this.”

  The two agents obeyed without argument, one slinging Eliza’s arm over his shoulder, the other hauling the half-melted cannon. She grumbled curses all the way back.

  Graylock stood alone.

  “Another day,” he murmured, leveling his weapon, “another mission.”

  A Crawler leapt from the swarm, jaws stretched impossibly wide, screeching—

  Crack.

  The Judicator’s right barrel flashed, releasing a compressed bolt of Arcane-forged kinetic energy. A coiled snap echoed out, the shot punching cleanly through the creature’s mouth and vaporizing its torso into a mist of black ichor and steam. The air rippled from the kinetic transfer, as if the space behind the crawler had been sucker-punched by an invisible god.

  Graylock didn’t flinch.

  He raised his left Judicator.

  Boom. Boom. Boom.

  Each shot cut through lines of Crawlers, kinetic energy chaining through bodies like lightning—slicing, breaking, vaporizing. Chunks became smoke. Bone shattered and collapsed inward.

  He advanced, slow and deliberate. His feet moved with calm efficiency, but his arms and eyes worked overtime, locking targets, switching angles, lining up shots.

  Then—a Wyrmling burst from the horde.

  It launched itself, fangs glowing with toxic luminance.

  Graylock stepped aside with practiced sluggishness, like a man dodging raindrops—and then lifted his Judicator.

  Crack.

  The shot split the Wyrmling mid-air. One half spiraled into the dirt. The other disintegrated in a haze of kinetic residue.

  He crouched slightly, letting both Judicators hiss as they cooled, vents exhaling faint bursts of blue steam.

  “Good grief,” he muttered. “Should’ve finished that coffee.”

  Then he moved again—this time with more force in his step, more grit in his shoulders.

  They lunged at him—Crawlers, Wyrmlings, mutants with stingers and bone-horns and whispering mouths. But it didn’t matter.

  He tore through them.

  The field began to quiet. Hundreds of corpses steamed in the aftermath, most half-melted or missing from where kinetic bursts carved through them.

  Graylock looked up.

  In the distance, something stirred.

  A group of Wyrmlings began to merge—flesh pulling into flesh, forming something larger, pulsating, its core glowing with Abyssal corruption.

  And then—they came.

  Mawhounds. Eight-legged, doglike horrors with no eyes and too many teeth, armored with Abyssal shell, sniffing for Arcane like hounds of war.

  Shardfiends. Crystal-fanged juggernauts of Ebonshard, their bodies pulsing with unnatural geometry. Their shrieks shattered stone.

  Graylock stood tall.

  He sighed, voice low and tired. “Just once. Just once I want a mission where the end doesn’t get worse.”

  He glanced at his weapons.

  “Voice command: Wraithfire mode.”

  Both Judicators shifted with a mechanical clunk, cores glowing brighter, arcs of blue fire starting to coil down their barrels.

  “Command authorization: Activate Bulwark Harness.”

  Beneath his coat, Arcane circuitry lit up across his back and limbs, glowing softly like veins of molten light. His movements steadied, braced. The Bulwark field activated,

  enhancing his reaction time and impact resistance.

  Graylock was done holding back.

  Without hesitation or invitation, they poured from the Rift—Mawhounds with slavering maws, Shardfiends with jagged limbs, and a Wyrmling hybrid, its fused flesh a nightmare of mutation and speed.

  Graylock stepped forward.

  Twin Judicators already raised, Wraithfire mode engaged. The air around the barrels wavered with heat and raw pressure, twin arcs glowing with compressed kinetic energy. He pulled the triggers and held them—five long seconds of restrained devastation.

  Then he let go.

  The world fractured.

  Two kinetic lances screamed forth, not beams but concentrated arcs of force, bright as Arc-split dawn. They punched through the horde and everything beyond it—flesh, bone, stone—turned to blurred streaks and disintegrated matter. A kinetic aftershock erupted behind, like a pressure wave detonating through a steel tunnel—crushing, pulverizing.

  Graylock was hurled four feet back, boots skidding across cracked earth. His posture never broke.

  The Bulwark Harness flared to life, spine-veins lighting up like circuitry under strain, dispersing recoil through humming stabilizers.

  Mawhounds near the Rift twitched, slowly knitting themselves back together, but the Shardfiends and Wyrmlings further out?

  Gone. Obliterated.

  The next wave came faster—shrieking, scrambling, swarming.

  Graylock fired again—not to kill, but to move.

  He let the Wraithfire’s recoil adjust his stance, sidestepping a lunging Mawhound by launching himself sideways mid-discharge, then spun and shot a hole through its chest.

  Another Mawhound dove—

  Graylock fired down, recoil vaulting him backward as a second beast missed by inches.

  Then came the Shardfiends, claws unfolding into crystal cannons. They launched razor-shards like glittering storms.

  Graylock’s Harness thrummed—he absorbed the pressure, storing it, then released—

  He shot forward like a slingshot, boots digging in, his silhouette a blur as he dodged and weaved through the storm.

  He planted his feet, held down the trigger again—Four seconds.

  He lined the shot—

  And released hell.

  Dozens of Shardfiends vanished in a linear rupture of light and motion—erased from existence.

  Before he could breathe—

  A Mawhound launched from his blind spot. Too fast. Too close.

  Then—a silver blur.

  A double-edged blade tore through the creature’s head, spinning with a high-pitched whir like a turbine engine. It hit the ground twitching.

  The blade curved in the air, a boomerang of steel and violet arcs, returning to its master’s grip with casual grace.

  Selene Veyne stood across the battlefield, her body relaxed, one blade in hand, the other just settling into her palm. Her Silver Serpents hummed with Gravitic-Arcane resonance, purple light dancing along their edge like starlight rippling in oil.

  She winked, smile lazy and amused.

  “Aww, did you really think I was just going to watch, Gray?”

  Graylock exhaled, cracked his neck, and winced as he flexed his shoulders.

  “I’m gonna need some ibuprofen after this.”

  He muttered as released a single sided without even looking.

  Selene’s gaze slid to Graylock’s smoldering Twin Judicators, still trailing ribbons of heat in the rift breeze. The Arcane coils dimmed, but the steam rising off them shimmered violet in the Riftlight.

  “Well,” she said with a lilt, voice velvet and steel. “They look pretty hot.”

  If you find this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the infringement.

  She glanced sideways—wicked grin, raised brow. “Like you.”

  Graylock sighed like a man cursed to endure both war and flirtation. He unlatched the spent voidglass cartridges, each one hissing as it fell, glowing with the residue of pure Arcane discharge. Two fresh cores clicked into place from his belt, humming like captive thunder.

  The Rift didn't wait.

  It pulsed.

  It opened further.

  Something vast stirred beyond its edges—too big, too old. The ground vibrated, and then the swarm spilled out.

  Crawlers skittering in clouds. Wyrmlings twisting like smoke. Shardfiends screaming in serrated chorus. Mawhounds, their misshapen maws stretching too wide for bone.

  A second phase.

  Selene’s expression lit up like a noblewoman gifted a ballroom and a murder license.

  “How quaint.” Her heels clicked forward. “This party came back to life just for lil O' me.”

  Graylock slid the Judicators back to his side holsters.

  “I can already see that you're gonna enjoy this a little too much.”

  Selene’s laugh rang out—bright, wild, aristocratically unhinged. The kind of laugh you heard just before someone very rich ordered your execution via opera.

  “ Exactly Gray, you know me too well. Maybe we are soulmates. Tehe. ”

  She lifted her arms.

  The neural lattice embedded along her temples flared alive—Arcane sigils blooming across her skin like runes whispered by old gods. Her pupils flickered like jadeite.

  “Fly, my darlings.”

  The Silver Serpents launched from her grasp like twin comets—sleek, curved, engraved with dancing Arcane veins. In the air, they spun and split like predators loosed from a leash. The blades moved as if born of thought, slicing through the horde in graceful arcs.

  Tier-1 and 2 abyssal creatures were nothing.

  They were mist, memories, and mulch.

  Selene advanced through the chaos like a queen in a storm. The Serpents spun around her in deadly choreography—cutting, defending, intercepting. Her hands stayed idle. Her thoughts did the killing.

  “Dance, my beautiful serpents,” she sang. “Dance!”

  A Mawhound lunged from above—soaring over the spinning blades in a predatory arc. Its jaws split wide, descending for the kill.

  Selene didn’t blink.

  One blade curved back like a boomerang, its silver arc kissing the wind—into her hand, solid, singing.

  CLANG.

  She parried the beast mid-air, the impact ringing like a struck bell. Then—four precise cuts. A maw becomes four falling chunks of meat.

  More Mawhounds crashed through. Shardfiends flanked. One Silver Serpent still spun at her side, the other now an extension of her arm.

  She didn’t retreat.

  She glowed.

  “Oh? More?” Her voice was velvet soaked in fire. “I’m flattered that you all want me that badly.”

  She slammed her arm guards together.

  The kinetic plates sang.

  It came to life swiftly. The impact plates unfolded, clicked, and shifted into full gauntlets, sculpted from glistening obsidian steel laced with Arcane shimmer. Power coursed through her arms like living lightning.

  “Awaken, my Heartbreakers.”

  A shockwave pulsed from her palms. The earth beneath her cracked, and the very air seemed to pull away in reverence.

  A storm had entered the field.

  A Commander Sentinel was no longer holding back.

  Graylock exhaled as the hiss of cooling vents sighed from his Twin Judicators, now locked back into their holsters. His gaze swept the battlefield—chaos in motion. And in the eye of that storm spun Selene, reveling in the carnage like it was choreographed just for her.

  Another sigh. The kind that said: Of course she’s enjoying this.

  From his belt, he pulled two Sentinel Gadgets—compact, innocuous, each no larger than a flask. With a flick, one extended an injector head. He stabbed it into his neck with clinical indifference.

  “Great,” he muttered, “this is definitely going on my overtime log.”

  The serum hit instantly—painkillers laced with adrenaline and neural accelerants. His heartbeat synced with the thrum of energy in his chest as he rolled his neck, vertebrae cracking like dry ice.

  “KS - gauntlets.”

  The Gadgets pulsed. Unfolded. Slithered around his arms like eager machines. They locked into place as reinforced gauntlets, lit with blue filaments that pulsed in time with his breathing. The energy stored in his Bulwark Harness surged to the surface, hungry for use.

  And across the field—Selene was dancing with death.

  Her silver serpents spun in perfect arcs around her—hovering, slicing, defending. Mawhounds charged, only to be shattered mid-lunge by a single, brutal punch from her Heartbreaker Gauntlets. Bone cracked like porcelain beneath her blows.

  One creature dove from above.

  It didn’t make it halfway.

  A serpent sliced it clean in two—falling halves evaporated in streaks of violet mist.

  Shardfiends screamed from afar, hurling their razor payloads. Selene’s serpents spun into a cyclone shield, deflecting the shards like they were leaves in a storm.

  Her gauntlets pulsed—full of stolen momentum. She spotted the next wave.

  With a war cry, she slammed both fists into the earth. “Have a taste of this!”

  The result was seismic.

  A concussive shockwave tore forward, reducing the charging horde to shredded silhouettes. The ground cracked and buckled, leaving only smoldering dust in its wake.

  She took a breath. Just one. The serpents kept orbiting her like blades dancing to an unseen song.

  Then a blur of blue light cut through the swarm.

  Graylock.

  He moved with precision, not grace—mechanical, measured, devastating. Every punch landed with surgical force. Every kick folded creatures in half. His Kinetic Rush was active, and for a moment, he looked less like a man and more like a force of physics unleashed.

  Selene called out between strikes, mock-flirting as always. “You trying to steal the spotlight, Gray?”

  He didn’t answer. He didn’t need to.

  He just crushed a Shardfiend’s spine with a backhand and kept moving.

  Not to be outdone, Selene surged back into the fray, her serpents singing through the air. But then—flickers. Stutters. Faltering arcs.

  Graylock’s speed slowed. The glow in his gauntlets dimmed.

  Selene’s serpents hesitated, no longer fluid.

  They both cursed in unison. “Tsk, damn Shardfiend blood.”

  Its taint was infamous—corrosive to Arcane systems, polluting gear and disrupting energy flow. It crawled into circuits like a living virus.

  Selene snapped her serpents into manual mode. Graylock resorted to raw muscle—his strikes heavier, slower, less refined. A Mawhound lunged. He leapt—

  “Gray!” Selene shouted. “Catch!”

  One of her serpents spun through the air like a silver lightning bolt. He snatched it mid-leap and landed hard, slashing clean through the beast.

  They moved together now—improvised harmony.

  Cut. Block. Break. Burn.

  By the time the last creature fell, they stood bloodied and breathless, soaked in Abyssal gore. Their gear sparked and flickered. Half-functioning. Fading.

  Selene grinned, hands on her hips.

  “You hold up alright for a grumpy old man.”

  Graylock gave a tired smirk. “Still faster than your wardrobe changes.”

  But then—the rift screamed.

  It wasn’t a sound. It was a wrongness.

  A pressure that cracked the spine of reality.

  They both turned, shoulders squared. The Rift ahead pulsed with colors that defied language—blacklight and bruised gold. Something vast stirred inside.

  Something ancient. Something hungry.

  The final phase had arrived.

  The air turned wrong before the Rift even tore fully open.

  A deep, grinding groan—like cities crumbling beneath oceans—echoed out as the Guttergod stepped through the abyssal scar. Its body wasn’t flesh—it was an architecture of ruin: streets, towers, pipes, signs, all stitched together in a mockery of a humanoid shape. Skyscraper ribs flexed with oily breath. Its steps made the ground ripple like water. Gravity broke around it. Memory stuttered.

  “Guttergod, disgusting bastard.” Graylock muttered. His voice was steady. His eyes weren’t.

  The Guttergod attacked immediately, its arm—a writhing apartment complex—slamming down like a comet. Concrete flew. Shardfiends and Mawhounds were pulverized without distinction. Graylock and Selene barely dodged, thrown back into rubble and smoke.

  “Cover me,” Graylock ordered.

  Selene's Silver Serpents spun outward, intercepting blasts of abyssal shards and leaping hounds. She bought him seconds. That’s all he needed.

  Graylock stepped forward—steam venting from the bolts along his spine.

  “Sentinel Root Mode: Engaged.”

  His body locked in place. Twin Judicators reoriented. Shoulder gyros stabilized. A pulse sank into the earth beneath him—grounding the recoil to the terrain itself.

  He lifted the weapons and began to pull.

  5 seconds.

  The chambers glowed white, energy spiraling into the barrels like feeding hurricanes. The heat shimmered around him.

  Crack—Boom!

  First shot struck the Guttergod dead center, blowing a trench into its chest. It reeled back, but another shot followed—then another.

  Seven seconds.

  The Guttergod shrieked as parts of its ribcage were torn free, the surrounding ground liquefied by the force.

  Ten seconds.

  Graylock’s voice was low. Controlled.

  “Burn.”

  The final shot erupted—an overcharged kinetic lance that shattered the air and split the Guttergod straight down the front, peeling its armored frame open like paper.

  And then… click.

  Dead silence from the Judicators.

  “Damn it,” Graylock hissed. He hadn’t reloaded the new Voidglass cores.

  The Guttergod began reforming. Its torso rebuilt like reverse-decaying scaffolding.

  Then—

  BOOM.

  A thundercrack tore the sky as Eliza Kane, bruised and filthy, stood atop a fallen corpses of abyss creature, her Havoc Cannon glowing white-hot.

  “Overlord online,” she said, voice raspy.

  The cannon barked.

  A single shot, charged beyond safe capacity, howled like judgment—and struck the Guttergod's core dead center.

  Silence.

  The titan convulsed—its architecture splitting apart into hovering fragments before collapsing into itself like a dying orbit. The Guttergod was no more.

  Before relief could settle, the Rift pulsed—twice.

  It had grown. Big enough now to stay permanent. And from its depths poured Mawhounds and Shardfiends, scrambling out like rats fleeing a drowned nest.

  Then:

  “GRAYLOCK!” a voice called from the safe zone. An Operative tossed a glowing device across the field.

  The manual stabilizer.

  He caught it.

  Graylock’s spine lit again—Bulwark Harness flaring bright blue. Kinetic energy stored from Root Mode surged into his muscles.

  He launched forward, boots cracking stone.

  Selene’s Silver Serpents surged ahead of him, weaving like streams of mercury, intercepting every creature lunging from the Rift.

  A Shardfiend tried to flank—Graylock didn’t stop. He drop-kicked it mid-stride, used the recoil to spring again.

  Thirty meters.

  Fifteen.

  Five—

  He reached the Rift.

  Graylock slammed the stabilizer into the ground. It hissed with light.

  “RUN!” he shouted.

  And he did.

  Behind him, the stabilizer activated, firing tendrils of reality-stitching energy into the heart of the anomaly. The Rift spasmed. Shrieked. Then—

  BOOM.

  Light overtook the battlefield.

  When it cleared, the Rift was gone.

  Only steam. Silence. Scattered ash.

  Then the cheer broke out from the Operatives. Helmets raised. High-fives thrown. Eliza slammed her cannon on the ground and shouted, “Finally it's over... Bleh” and she passed out.

  Selene leaned over, panting. “You alive?”

  Graylock nodded. “Somehow.”

  She slapped his shoulder. “Didn’t even die once. Impressive. Maybe I should reward you dearly.”

  He gave her a dry look. “I would rather do this all over again instead of whatever is going in your head.”

  Graylock reached into his coat, pulled out his comm. The screen flickered, just one new message.

  > Deadeye:

  They’re at it again.

  Noire. Leiger. Sparring. Weapons drawn. I give it 3 minutes before they start trying to kill each other again.

  Graylock stared at it.

  Sighed.

  “…Gods help me, I hope one of them learns something this time instead of try to murder each other again.”

  Fade to black.

  [ Back to Present ]

  Leiger stepped out of the medical bay, her right hand bound in layers of stark white bandages—the price for her lapse of control against the reinforced bathroom mirror. The pain wasn’t sharp anymore. It had dulled, just like her expression as she stared briefly at the dressing. It wasn’t the wound that unsettled her—it was the reason it existed.

  Uncontrolled. Impulsive. Weak.

  She took a breath and started walking down the corridor toward the Main Hall, footsteps measured, calm returning to her posture. But she stopped mid-step, instinct turning her back toward the transport hangar as a familiar voice called out.

  “Leiger.”

  She turned.

  Graylock emerged through the entry bulkhead, battle-worn but upright. Slung over his back like a half-packed gear bag was Eliza Kane—small, unconscious, and still breathing. Her arms limp over his shoulders.

  They approached each other slowly, quietly, until only a few paces separated them. No embrace, no urgency. Just the brief nod of warriors who made it back again.

  “Well, I'm taking the backup went smoothly,” Leiger offered with a dry calm.

  Graylock gave a usual tired expression but with barely noticable smirk. “It almost went well. Let’s just say Eliza did what Elisa does—but the Rift didn’t go quietly. Kept expanding. Real bastard of a tear. And god forbid, a City-level threat poured out by the end.”

  Leiger’s brows lifted slightly. “City-level threat?”

  He nodded, face cooling with memory. “Guttergod. I suppose you haven't seen any in your rift protocols?”

  Leiger blinked once. “…Yes.” That was all she said, but her shoulders tensed just enough to betray the ghosts behind her eyes.

  Graylock's gaze dropped to her hand. “I heard you were sparring with Noire again,” he said, voice more casual now. “Suppose it went somewhat well if that’s the only visible injury.”

  She exhaled, tired and sour all at once. “Somewhat,” she muttered, and that was generous.

  Graylock raised an eyebrow. “Briefing started?”

  “Not yet,” she replied. “But Commander Vex has been yelling for every Commander and Elite to show up five minutes ago. And weirdly—me and Deadeye were called, too. We’re still just Operatives.”

  “That’s a good sign,” Graylock said thoughtfully. “When they start pulling promising Operatives into Elite briefings, it usually means someone’s eyeing a promotion.”

  Leiger didn’t answer right away, but there was something unreadable in her expression—hope, doubt, or maybe both.

  Then Eliza stirred.

  Still unconscious, her voice mumbled something incoherent. Graylock shifted slightly to keep her from slipping.

  “Anyway, I’ll catch up,” he said. “Need to drop her off at Med and make sure they pump her full of enough meds to sleep through a gunfight.”

  “Understood,” Leiger nodded.

  He turned, pausing just once with a half-smile. “See you in there.”

  Then he was gone, boots heavy as he carried Eliza deeper into the station.

  Leiger stood in silence for a moment. She watched them disappear around the bend, then turned back toward the upper levels—toward the briefing room where something was clearly beginning to unfold.

  Leiger walked through the Main Hall and approached the reinforced doors just behind it—double-wide and lined with brass coils pulsing faint Arcane energy. As they slid open with a soft hiss, she stepped into the briefing room.

  The space was wide, well-lit, and unusually breathable—ventilation hums whispered overhead. Tactical boards lined the walls, Arcane Rift maps pinned with glowing sigils. A long, metallic table dominated the center, its surface etched with territory grids and dotted with data boxes and hollow-screens.

  Three Commanders were already present.

  Commander Selene Veyne leaned casually against the edge of the table, arms folded, her usual confident smile lingering even as she whispered something sly to Noire.

  Commander Noire Valcrest, calm and frosty, sat with one leg crossed over the other, thumbing through a personnel file like it was light reading.

  And Commander Elias Vex stood with his arms locked behind his back, jaw clenched, eyes occasionally darting to the door like it owed him punctuality.

  The Elite Operatives hadn’t all arrived yet. From the side, Paycut and Sonnet were deep in quiet discussion near a map projector.

  “If things are gonna get this serious again,” Paycut muttered, “we should push for a raise. Hazard pay. Double it, maybe. I’m not gonna fight with a whole ass faction for another minimal wage.”

  Sonnet raised an eyebrow, lips curling into a whimsical smile.

  “A noble request, dear Mercer—but methinks the Arcane Board doth measure worth in corpses, not coin.”

  Paycut shot him a glance. “And what the hell is that supposed to mean?”

  He gestured theatrically toward the center of the room.

  “In short—‘tis easier to bury valor than to budget it.”

  Paycut sighed. “One day, I swear, I’ll throw you out a window.”

  Sonnet grinned. “As long as it be a stained-glass window, I shall fall in style.”

  Vex muttered something under his breath.

  “Tsk... Why are those two taking so long.” he snapped, clearly referencing Eliza.

  Selene smirked. “Relax, Elias. Graylock’s probably dragging her from the med bay. You know how she gets after Rift battles.”

  “She gets injured, that’s what she gets,” Vex shot back. “And him? Always playing field medic instead of showing up on time.”

  Noire turned a page without looking up. “Yeah... it very hot. Ahem—They’ll arrive. There’s no need for theatrics.”

  Just as Leiger stepped in, a hand suddenly clapped her shoulder.

  She reacted on instinct—sharp, fast—her body tense with hostility as she spun.

  “Whoa there, Comrade,” came the ever-unbothered voice of Deadeye. He grinned, half-serious, half-lunatic. “Didn’t mean to trigger that Sentinel feral mode. Though I gotta admit—it’s kinda hot.”

  Leiger gave a sharp sigh. “Back off, Deadeye.”

  He walked beside her, completely unfazed. “You know, you and I? We’d make one hell of a messy report together.”

  “Bloody would be the right word,” she replied, without looking at him.

  As they approached the others, Paycut turned to them.

  “Heard you sparred with Commander Noire recently,” she said dryly. “Congrats on not getting stomped on. Med bay’s running low on thread and patience.”

  Leiger gave a half-smile. “It was mostly glass that got hurt.”

  Sonnet added, “A worthy opponent, that mirror. Reflects your pain in more ways than one.”

  Before more banter could follow, the doors suddenly slammed open.

  Eliza Kane stormed in, kicking the metal frame open with her boot. Still battered but very much on her feet.

  Graylock followed behind her, calm and composed, but with faint traces of exhaustion lingering around his eyes.

  “Finally,” Vex snapped. “Let’s get this briefing started already.”

  [ Post-Briefing ]

  The room emptied slowly, each Operative filing out with various degrees of understanding and concern. Only the three Commanders and Graylock remained behind.

  He stood quietly by the table, thumbing through a glamorous envelope—thick parchment, sealed with gold filigree and the unmistakable mark of an Imperial Authority Summons.

  Vex remained still as a statue, stern and unreadable.

  Noire leaned back in her chair, arms folded, gaze sharp but silent.

  Selene… seemed off. Her posture slouched slightly, fingers fidgeting with her sleeve cuff. She wasn’t smiling, for once. Her eyes kept flicking toward Graylock, as though unsure whether to speak or not.

  Graylock finished reading. His jaw tightened. His breathing turned slow and controlled, the kind that came before shouting.

  Then he slammed the envelope onto the table.

  “No. Not again.”

  His voice wasn’t loud—but it was furious.

  “I oppose this. We can't trade our sentinel for resources again!”