Then I heard the voice of the Lord saying, "Whom shall I send? And who will go for us?"
And I said, "Here am I. Send me!"
Isaiah 6:8 New International Version (NIV)
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"That's the twenty-sixth day in a row he's been here," Father Miguel whispered, startling Lantom from his observations.
Lantom raised an eyebrow. "And he's never attended a service?"
Miguel shook his head. "Just sits there, staring at the cross."
Lantom made his way down the aisle, the familiar stirring in his chest guiding his steps.
"Buenos días," Lantom said softly as he sat down.
The young man's eyes flickered briefly in his direction. "Buenos días, padre."
Silence settled over them, broken only by the distant sounds of Buenos Aires awakening outside the church walls.
After a minute, the man spoke again, his voice tinged with uncertainty. "Have I come at a bad time, Father?"
Lantom smiled gently. "The church is always open to those seeking solace."
The young man's lips quirked in a humorless smile. "You're not from here, are you, Father? Your accent... American?"
Lantom chuckled, switching effortlessly to English. "Is it that obvious?"
The man responded in kind, his own English flawless. "Your Spanish is excellent, but yes, it's clear it's not your first language."
"What about you? You speak English like a native."
A shrug. "I've had practice."
Lantom nodded, then asked, "Why haven't you joined us for service? You come so often, it's unusual not to see you on Sunday nights. Do you work then?"
The young man contemplated his answer, his eyes never leaving the crucifix. "I do work Sunday nights, but even if I didn't... I'm not sure I'd be comfortable attending service."
Lantom had heard similar sentiments countless times before. "You're not the first to struggle with belief, my son, and you certainly won't be the last."
"Do you struggle yourself?" The question came quickly, almost challengingly.
"Not often nowadays. But sometimes, I do. Life can be hard. Some events can shake you to your very core."
The young man remained silent, his jaw clenching slightly.
"Has your life been hard recently?" Lantom prodded gently.
"You're not from here?"
"No, Rosario."
Lantom's eyes lit up with recognition. "Ah, are you perhaps a fan of Rosario Central?"
The young man shook his head. "No, Newell's."
"Messi's old club," Lantom noted with a smile.
"What brought you to the capital?" Lantom asked.
"My father got shot."
Lantom's breath caught in his throat. He waited, allowing the weight of those words to settle between them.
"It's been some years since then," the young man continued. "Security isn't as big an issue here."
"Is your father... well?"
A nod. "His health is a mess, and he struggles, but he's okay. He'll live. I'm making sure of that."
"Is that why you come in the mornings? To pray for your father's health?"
The young man snorted, a bitter sound. "I don't think it's making much difference. It's like trying to speak to someone on the other line and all I'm getting is static in return."
Lantom leaned forward, his voice gentle but firm. "And yet, you've been here every day for nearly a month. Something keeps bringing you back."
Silence fell between them once more, the young man's frown deepening as he stared at the cross.
Trying to ease the tension, Lantom commented, "The cross seems to hold your attention. It's quite a powerful symbol, isn't it?"
The young man's gaze remained fixed on the crucifix. "Powerful, yes. But isn't it ironic that we venerate the very instrument of His torture?"
Lantom nodded thoughtfully. "There's more to that cross than meets the eye."
The young man's tone was skeptical. "How so?"
Lantom leaned forward, his voice low but intense. "It represents a choice. Christ willingly faced his worst fears, bore the weight of all mankind's sins. He chose to confront that which terrified him most."
"For what purpose?" The young man's brow furrowed.
"Salvation," Lantom replied. "By voluntarily bearing that burden, He opened a path for all of us. It's a profound lesson - we find our own salvation by willingly facing our fears, our pain, our faults. By bearing our own crosses."
The young man fell silent, his eyes distant as he processed Lantom's words.
"What burdens you, son?" Lantom asked gently. "What fears bring you here day after day?"
The young man's jaw clenched, his voice barely audible. "The past. It haunts me when I close my eyes."
Lantom nodded, recognizing the weight behind those words. "And you're afraid to face it?"
A long pause followed before the young man whispered, "I'm afraid of what I might become if I do."
Lantom leaned forward, his voice gentle but firm. "That fear, that suffering you feel... it's not necessarily a bad thing, you know."
The young man looked up, confusion evident in his eyes. "How can it be good?"
"It's a sign," Lantom explained. "A sign that something needs to change. Perhaps in how you see the world, or how you act in it. Your suffering is telling you there's a better path waiting to be discovered."
A glimmer of something - hope, perhaps? - shone through the pain in the young man's eyes. "How do I find that path?"
Lantom's voice grew softer, but more intense. "By doing what He did on the cross. By taking responsibility. By facing your fears and your guilt head-on. By choosing to be better, even when it's hard. Especially when it's hard."
For the first time since their conversation began, the young man's shoulders relaxed slightly. "I... I don't know if I can do that."
"You can," Lantom assured him. "You've already taken the first step by coming here, day after day. You're seeking something, even if you're not sure what it is yet. That's the beginning of change."
The young man nodded slowly, his gaze returning to the cross. "Thank you, Father. I think I need to think about what you've said."
Lantom stood, placing a gentle hand on the young man's shoulder. "What's your name, son?"
"Alexander," he replied. "Alexander Salvatore."
————————
Years passed. Alexander's determination birthed a thriving business in the heart of Buenos Aires. A Silicon Valley giant acquired it, offering not just a lucrative payout but a senior position. They expedited his visa, promising cutting-edge care for his ailing father. He seized the opportunity, leaving his homeland behind.
Father Lantom's words would echo throughout the rest of his life.
Their paths, however, would never cross again.
————————
Dust swirled through shafts of dim light, dancing like lost spirits above the wreckage of Boulder Town. Dan Heng's fingers traced the rough stone wall outside Natasha's clinic, his nails catching on the jagged edges. Each scrape echoed the guilt festering in his chest. The air tasted of copper and ash, thick enough to choke on.
March's grunt drew his attention as she helped lift an elderly woman from the rubble. Sweat gleamed on her forehead, cutting clean lines through the grime on her face. The woman's quiet whimpers of pain twisted something in Dan's gut.
"We should be doing more." The words slipped out before Dan could stop them.
March lowered the woman onto a makeshift cot with gentle hands. "One at a time. That's all we can do."
"But is it enough?" His mind drifted back to the empty space where Xander's arm should be. "After everything that's happened..."
March's aquamarine eyes met his, hard as gemstones. "It has to be." She wiped her brow with the back of her hand, leaving a fresh smear of dirt. "I'm more worried about him. The way he looked after Oleg..."
A scream cut through their conversation - not of pain or grief, but joy. Pure, unexpected joy. Dan's spine stiffened as a commotion erupted near the clinic's entrance. Gasps and cries rippled through the gathered crowd, a rising tide of whispers that swept through the air:
"The children! They're alive!"
"...one-armed man dug through..."
"...impossible, it should have killed them..."
"...like something out of legend..."
Fersman burst through the crowd, Hook's small form cradled against his chest. Tears carved clean tracks down his dust-covered face. Behind him, others carried the remaining Moles and - Dan's breath caught - what he'd later find out to be the husband of the woman who'd condemned Xander hours before.
Natasha rushed forward, her medical training warring with disbelief. Her hands moved automatically to check Hook's pulse, even as her eyes widened. "How...?"
"A one-armed man dug through fifteen meters of solid rock," Fersman's voice cracked with emotion. "His eyes lit up the darkness like twin suns. Found them in an air pocket, all huddled together."
"Who?" The whispers spread through the crowd. "Who could have done this?"
"Alexander Salvatore," Fersman said, his arms tightening around Hook. "And there was another man there - Hedeon. He..." Fersman's voice caught. "He used his own body to shield Hook when the rocks came down."
"Hedeon?" Someone murmured. "The Vagrant? I remember him from the Great Mine incident."
"Yes," Fersman nodded, tears streaming. "He saved my daughter's life."
The name - Alexander Salvatore - rippled through the crowd like lightning through storm clouds. Dan's eyes met March's, recognition sparking between them.
"There!" A child's voice cut through the murmurs. "It's him!"
The crowd parted like waves before a storm, revealing Xander. Blood and grime caked his remaining arm, his clothes torn and filthy. But his eyes - those impossible golden eyes - blazed with newfound purpose.
He approached Natasha first, his voice low but carrying. "The children will need fluids. Dehydration, mostly. Minor cuts and bruises." His gaze softened. "But they'll live. Also, Clara's doing better. Had to scold her about not eating properly."
Relief softened Natasha's features. "You spoke to her?"
"More than spoke. She's going to be okay." His smile carried genuine warmth.
He turned, scanning the crowd. "Oleg!"
The big man stepped forward, mechanical arm whirring. His eyes darted between the rescued children and Xander's battered form.
"You... you dug them out? Alone? Looking like that? How did you even find them?" Oleg added, disbelief etching deeper lines around his eyes. "We had our best scouts searching..."
Xander's hand brushed his dimensional pouch, a quick, almost unconscious gesture. "That's not important right now. I need you to gather people. Bronya, Seele, Luka, Sampo. Fifteen minutes."
"For what?"
"We need to talk. All of us." His voice dropped, carrying steel beneath the exhaustion. "This ends tonight."
"You have a plan?"
A ghost of a smile touched Xander's lips. "Something like that. Gather anyone with influence. We're going to need to be on the same page."
He moved through the crowd then, collecting Dan and March with gentle touches. The woman who'd cursed him reached out as he passed, but words seemed to fail her. Xander simply squeezed her hand, nodding once in understanding.
Once clear of the throng, March grabbed his torn sleeve. "How did you even manage to—" She gestured back at the clinic. "Two hours ago you could barely look at anyone."
"And you dug through solid rock?" Dan's usual stoicism cracked. "With one arm?"
"Did you really find them just by—"
"People are saying you lit up the whole cavern—"
"And here we thought you needed space to think—"
"Must have been some walk," Dan added, almost smiling. "The one you stormed off on earlier - got any meditation tips to share?"
"Was it the fresh air? Because I swear we've been trying to get through to you for—"
"Let's just say I had one hell of a wake-up call." Then he pulled them both close, his remaining arm somehow managing to encompass them both. The embrace carried the scent of earth and blood, but underneath - something familiar.
Something like home.
His lips brushed March's forehead. The words came out rough, barely above a whisper. "Thank you for not giving up on me. Even when I gave you every reason to."
"Someone had to keep you honest." March's voice wavered despite her attempt at lightness. "You're stuck with me now, whether you like it or not."
Xander turned to Dan, their foreheads touching. The golden glow of his eyes cast strange shadows across their faces. "The arm was my choice, Dan. My sacrifice." His voice dropped lower. "Stop carrying that weight. It doesn't belong to you."
Dan's throat tightened. "But I should have found another way—"
"No. Clara lives because you had the strength to do what was necessary. I'm proud of you." The words struck like physical blows, precise and devastating in their sincerity.
He straightened then, that familiar determined glint returning to his eyes. "And now I need your help. Both of you."
"Name it," Dan said without hesitation.
"First, we're going to have to record a few couple of videos." A smile touched Xander's lips, sharp and certain. "Try to look heroic for the camera. Can't have you both looking sad and depressed. March, that layer of grime might actually work in our favor."
March snorted, but Dan saw the way her shoulders relaxed at the flash of humor. "And here I thought I was pulling off the post-apocalyptic chic. But… Xander, videos? What for?"
"I can't help but agree with her question. Right now?" Dan added. "Of all times?"
"Trust me." Xander's eyes began to glow. "Every second counts."
His expression sobered. "After that, Dan, I'll need Imbibitor Lunae's strength."
As if in response, a distant rumble shook loose fresh cascades of rock from the cavern ceiling. The sound of falling debris echoed like distant gunfire. Dan watched the rocks fall, understanding dawning with terrible clarity.
"You're going to try to save it all, aren't you?" he asked quietly. "The whole city."
Xander's eyes began to glow brighter, casting golden shadows across their faces. The light seemed to pulse in time with his heartbeat. "No trying," he said softly. "Only doing. The question is - are you with me?"
Dan squared his shoulders, feeling his own power stirring within him. "Always."
March's hand found his, squeezing tight. "Until the end."
————————
Himeko's muscles scream as she pivots, her laser drones slicing through another wave of Voidrangers. Sweat stings her eyes, mingling with the blood from a shallow cut on her forehead. She's lost count of how many hours she's been fighting, her world narrowed to the endless stream of enemies materializing aboard the Astral Express.
"Shields at 50%, Captain!" Pom-Pom's voice crackles over the comms, strained but determined.
Himeko grits her teeth, allowing herself a fleeting moment of doubt. They've held out for over 21 hours, but how much longer can they last? Outside, beyond the viewport, Welt wages a one-man war against the Antimatter Legion's armada. His black holes devour entire squadrons, but for every ship he destroys, two more seem to take its place.
A Distorter shimmers into existence, its energy beam narrowly missing Himeko's ear. She retaliates with a vicious swipe of her drone, cleaving the creature in half. But there's no time for satisfaction – a group of Reavers materializes behind her, their blades glinting in the emergency lighting.
"Come on, you bastards," Himeko snarls, her exhaustion momentarily forgotten as adrenaline surges through her veins. Her drones whirl in a deadly dance, carving through the Reavers' armor. She allows herself a grim smile as they fall, but it fades quickly as she spots a hulking shape materializing near Pom-Pom.
Horror floods Himeko's system as she recognizes the massive form of a Trampler. "Pom-Pom, run!" she screams, but she's pinned down by a fresh wave of Distorters and Reavers. Desperation claws at her throat as she watches the rabbit-like creature flee, the Trampler's thunderous steps gaining ground with terrifying speed.
Himeko fights with renewed fury, her drones buzzing like angry hornets as they cut through the enemy ranks.
But it's not enough. She's not fast enough, and Pom-Pom is going to—
The familiar hum of the space anchor cuts through the chaos, followed by a sound Himeko has never heard before – a blaring, distorted noise that makes her teeth ache. The world around her suddenly shifts, colors bleeding away until everything is cast in stark monochrome.
"REND!"
The shout reverberates through Himeko's bones, and then... carnage.
In the span of heartbeats, the Voidrangers surrounding her are reduced to dust. The massive Trampler pursuing Pom-Pom simply ceases to exist, leaving behind only its severed toes as grotesque evidence it was ever there.
Himeko blinks, her mind struggling to process what just happened. As the monochrome fades, she sees a gray-haired man standing protectively over Pom-Pom, a sword clutched in his single hand. It takes her a moment to recognize him, and when she does, her heart plummets.
"Xander?" she whispers, horrified.
He turns towards her, and Himeko has to stifle a gasp. This can't be the same man who left them just days ago. Xander's skin is ashen, his eyes bloodshot and ringed with dark circles. A vicious scar mars his face, and his right arm... Himeko's stomach lurches as she realizes it's simply gone.
"Are... you... okay?" Xander manages to rasp out before a violent coughing fit overtakes him. Blood splatters the floor as he doubles over.
Himeko rushes forward, Pom-Pom at her heels. She reaches for Xander, but hesitates, afraid that even the gentlest touch might cause him to crumble to dust. "What happened to you?" she breathes, her mind reeling.
Xander's remaining hand shoots out, grasping Himeko's wrist with surprising strength. His lips move, forming a single word: "Stay."
"Stay? But you're dying!" Himeko protests, her voice rising with panic. She tries to pull away, her eyes darting towards the medbay. "We need to get you help, now!"
But Xander's grip tightens, his eyes pleading. Himeko feels the conflict tear through her – the desperate need to save him warring with the urgency in his gaze.
With trembling fingers, he fumbles for his phone, tapping out a message before holding it up to Himeko.
She pulls out her own device, heart pounding as she sees a video file waiting for her. The image that greets her is so unexpected, so jarringly normal compared to the blood-soaked chaos around them, that for a moment Himeko forgets to breathe.
It's Xander – alive and standing, but far from whole. His right arm is still missing, and his face bears the scars of recent battles. Yet, there's a strength in his posture that's absent from the man before her now. In the video, he embraces March and Dan Heng with his remaining arm, the intimacy of the moment making Himeko's chest ache. Despite his obvious injuries, Xander's eyes in the recording hold a clarity and determination that contrasts sharply with his current, blood-soaked state.
As she watches, Xander steps away, and March and Dan turn to address the camera directly.
"Himeko, if you're watching this..." March begins, her eyes filled with a mixture of grit and concern. "There's a lot we need to explain, but right now, we have three urgent requests."
Himeko listens, her brow furrowing as March outlines their bizarre instructions. Get Xander to a window? Make sure he sees Welt? Then move him to the Express' space anchor? It makes no sense, and yet...
She looks down at Xander, still wheezing on the floor, his eyes pleading. The warmth in his gaze, the hint of a smile on his bloodied lips – it's so at odds with the broken body before her that Himeko feels tears prick at her eyes.
"Okay," she whispers, nodding to Pom-Pom. "Let's do this."
Together, they carefully maneuver Xander to the nearest viewport. As they prop him up, Himeko catches sight of Welt beyond the reinforced glass. Her breath catches in her throat.
Welt moves with impossible grace, a dark silhouette against the starry void. Black holes bloom at his command, swallowing entire squadrons of enemy ships. Projections of aircraft and mechs materialize around him, a one-man armada holding the line against an endless tide of foes.
She tears her gaze away for a second to look at Xander, and what she sees makes her heart stutter.
Finally, after what feels like an eternity, Xander nods. His voice, barely more than a whisper, is somehow steady as he says, "Thank you… Himeko, Pom-Pom… Please… wait a few hours for me."
Himeko bites the inside of her cheek, swallowing back a torrent of questions and protests as they guide Xander to the space anchor. She watches, her heart in her throat, as he reaches out to ruffle Pom-Pom's fur with his remaining hand.
Then Xander turns to her, his golden eyes meeting hers with an intensity that steals her breath. He struggles to speak, each word a battle against pain and exhaustion.
"Don't... worry," he manages to rasp out. "Next week... coffee... together."
Before Himeko can respond, he disappears in a shower of blue sparks, leaving behind only the lingering scent of ozone and blood.
She stands there, frozen, her mind whirling. What could have happened on Belobog to change that man so profoundly? The cynical, guarded man she knew has been replaced by someone... someone kinder, warmer, but also infinitely more damaged.
With trembling fingers, she unpauses the video on her phone, listening as March and Dan continue their explanation. They thank her for following their instructions, assure her that Xander will heal, even manage to crack a weak joke that startles a pained laugh from Himeko's throat.
As they begin to outline their plan to save Belobog, Himeko feels a flicker of hope kindle in her chest.
It's fragile, barely more than a spark, but it's there.
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Asta's fingers fly across the holographic keyboard, her brow furrowed in concentration. The space station buzzes with frantic energy as the crew prepares for the looming Intelligentsia Guild and IPC representatives' visit. Absorbed in her work, Asta barely registers the Herta doll materializing beside her desk, the station's heightened activity fading into background noise.
"Asta, darling," the doll's voice rings out, startling her from her focus. "How are the preparations coming along?"
Asta blinks, her eyes adjusting as she looks up from the screen. She dismisses her assistant with a wave, turning her attention to the doll. "Madame Herta, I didn't see you there. The preparations are proceeding as planned, though there's still much to be done."
The doll's eyes narrow, a mischievous glint in their artificial depths. "And have you heard back from our little guinea pig?"
Asta's brow furrows. "Xander? I'm afraid not. My messages haven't been getting through to him at all."
"Tch," the doll clicks its tongue, a perfect imitation of Herta's disapproval. "The boy's going back on his promises, it seems."
"I wouldn't jump to conclusions just yet," Asta says, ever the diplomat. "He's been nothing but diligent in his visits to the station and in your experiments inside of the Simulated Universe. There could be communication issues we're unaware of."
The doll makes a noncommittal hum, but Asta can tell Herta's not entirely convinced of her own skepticism. "Well, he'd better make himself present soon, or I'll gut him myself."
Asta suppresses a smile at the empty threat. She's come to understand Herta's unique blend of scientific curiosity and strategic interest over the years. "Shall we discuss the preparations for the guild's visit?" she suggests, falling into step beside the doll as they make their way to Herta's office.
As they walk, Asta recounts the progress made and the tasks still ahead. The station has been a flurry of activity, with every department working overtime to ensure everything is perfect for their distinguished guests. Asta takes pride in her role, coordinating the chaos into something resembling order.
They enter the office, the familiar space a welcome respite from the bustle outside. Asta is mid-sentence, confirming a request she'd made for the event, when she notices a change in her communication logs.
Her eyebrows raise in surprise. "Oh," she says, interrupting herself. "It seems my messages have finally been delivered to Xander."
"Has the boy finally graced us with a response?" Herta's voice drips with sarcasm, but Asta detects a hint of eagerness beneath it.
Before she can respond, a notification pops up on her screen. "He has," she says, her surprise evident. "He's sent a video file."
Herta's doll tilts its head, curiosity piqued. "A video? How intriguing. It seems I've received one as well."
Their speculation is cut short by a sudden burst of energy from the space anchor in the corner of the office. Asta's eyes widen as sparks fly, heralding an unexpected arrival. A figure materializes, stumbling forward before collapsing to his knees.
Asta gasps, taking in the sight before her. The man looks like he's been through hell – missing an arm, eyes bloodshot, skin ashen. His hair is streaked with gray, a scraggly beard adorning his face. As he retches, expelling blood onto the pristine floor, Asta and Herta rush to his side.
It's only when they turn him over that Asta recognizes those unmistakable molten gold eyes. "XANDER?!" she exclaims, her voice a mixture of shock and concern.
Xander's remaining hand shoots out, grasping Herta's with surprising strength. His gaze is feverish, his words coming out in a pained rasp. "The video," he manages, "please... watch it!"
Asta and Herta bombard him with questions, but Xander's only response is to cough up more blood, his consciousness clearly fading. Herta triggers an alarm, and within moments, medical personnel flood the office. They whisk him away, Asta and Herta hot on their heels as they race towards the medical ward.
As they run, Asta fumbles with her device, pulling up the video Xander sent. The image that greets her is no less shocking than the man they just encountered – the man, looking battle-worn and weary, seated in what appears to be the ruins of an underground city.
"I know this will be difficult to understand," he begins, his voice rough with exhaustion. "The man you see before you has changed more than just appearance in the span of days. But I ask for your patience – there's a story that needs telling."
Asta's mind struggles to reconcile this weathered figure with the Xander she knew.
"Before I begin," video Xander continues, his tone softening, "I need to acknowledge my past mistakes. I've not always shown the respect and gratitude you deserve, especially you, Herta. I carry that regret with me. And yet, here I am, about to ask for your help once more."
Xander takes a deep breath, his gaze unwavering. "What I'm about to share isn't just about me. It's about the fate of countless lives on a world that's known centuries of hardship. A world now facing its darkest hour."
He leans in slightly, his voice carrying a mix of hope and desperation. "I ask you to listen, not for my sake, but for those who may not have a tomorrow. Please, hear my story and consider my request. The lives of hundreds of thousands may depend on it."
————————
Xander's eyes fly open, his chest heaving as he gasps for air. The sterile white ceiling of the Herta Space Station's medical ward swims into focus, and he becomes acutely aware of the multitude of tubes and wires connected to his left arm. Panic surges through him as a single, terrifying thought crystallizes in his mind:
How long have I been unconscious?
His heart races, each beat echoing in his ears like a ticking clock. Without hesitation, he brings his arm to his mouth, teeth bared and ready to tear out the IVs. Time is slipping away, and with it, countless lives in Belobog.
"No, stop!" A nurse rushes to his bedside, hands outstretched. "You need to rest, you're not—"
Xander ignores her, his teeth sinking into the plastic tubing. The taste of saline floods his mouth as he yanks, feeling the needle slide from his vein. Blood wells up, staining the pristine white sheets.
More medical staff pour into the room, their voices a cacophony of urgent commands and pleas. Hands press against his shoulders, trying to force him back onto the bed. But Xander fights against them, his desperation lending him strength.
"You don't understand," he growls, struggling to sit up. "I can't stay here. People are dying!"
A doctor leans over him, face grim. "Sir, you need to calm down. Your body has been through severe trauma. If you don't rest, you could—"
"HERTA!" Xander's scream cuts through the chaos, raw and filled with anguish. "HERTA, PLEASE!"
The room falls silent for a moment, and then a familiar mechanical whir fills the air. A doll-like figure materializes beside the bed, her purple eyes glowing with annoyance.
"What in the name of all that is logical is going on here?" Herta's voice is sharp, cutting through the tension like a knife. "I leave for five minutes, and my medical bay turns into a wrestling match?"
Xander's eyes lock onto her, his voice hoarse and desperate. "Herta, how long? How long have I been out?"
The doll's eyes narrow, and she raises a tiny hand, pointing at him accusingly. "You better calm down right this instant, or I'll put you to sleep myself. It's only been thirty minutes, you impatient fool!"
Rather than calming him, this information seems to light a fire under Xander. He redoubles his efforts to free himself, his movements frantic and uncoordinated. "Thirty minutes?! That's too long. I need to get back, I need to—"
"Oh, for the love of—" Herta's exasperation is palpable. With a flick of her wrist, a massive purple diamond materializes above Xander's bed. In her other hand, her signature hammer appears. "Last warning, boy. Settle down, or you can kiss your plans to save Belobog goodbye."
Xander freezes, his eyes widening in shock. The room goes still, the only sound the steady beep of heart monitors. "You... you saw the video?" he asks, his voice barely above a whisper.
The door to the medical bay slides open, and Asta steps in, her face a mixture of concern and determination. "We did," she confirms, moving to stand beside Xander's bed. Her hand reaches out, gently cupping his cheek. The touch is tender, almost maternal, and Xander can see the pain in her eyes as she takes in his haggard appearance.
"Xander," Asta says softly, her voice filled with compassion, "your body has been pushed beyond its limits. It's not healthy for you to throw yourself back into the fight so soon. You need rest, time to heal. At least a few more minutes."
The man's eyes fill with a desperate, haunted look. He closes them tightly, taking a deep breath that seems to shudder through his entire frame. The medical team exchanges glances, relief washing over their faces as the fight seems to drain out of their patient.
But when Xander's eyes open again, something has changed. His irises glow with an otherworldly golden light, and his pupils begin to pulse, a faint red tinge spreading through them. His gaze is no longer that of a desperate man, but of… something else.
Herta is the first to notice, her small form tensing as she senses an overwhelming presence. The air in the room becomes heavy, charged with an energy that makes the hair on the back of everyone's neck stand on end. It's as if an unseen entity is watching them, its gaze piercing through the very fabric of reality.
"Every moment I'm here," Xander says, his voice low and resonant, "someone in Belobog dies." His words hang heavy in the air. "But in the Simulated Universe, time moves faster. I can train, plan, prepare - accomplish in hours what would take days out here. That's the time Belobog needs."
The staff shifts uneasily, transfixed by Xander's glowing eyes. Asta steps back, her hand falling away.
"I'm grateful for your help," Xander continues, his gaze sweeping the room. "But I heal. The Stellaron ensures that." His voice cracks, humanity seeping through. "They don't have that luxury. No aeonic battery keeping them alive."
His eyes burn brighter, red spreading in his pupils. "Let me leave this bed. Let me enter that simulation. Let me right my wrongs." He pauses, his next words a solemn vow. "In return, I'll defend this station with my life."
Xander's fervor intensifies. "You give me that, Herta, I'll uncover every mystery of the Aeons inside that machine. I'll summon them myself if I must. But don't hold me back. Not from this. Not from what I've finally learned to cherish, to protect and preserve."
A tense silence follows, broken only by the soft beeping of medical equipment. Then, with a sigh that seems to carry the weight of centuries, Herta dispels the floating diamond. It vanishes in a shower of purple sparks, leaving the air tingling with residual energy.
"Let him up," Herta commands the medical team, her voice firm and calculated.
"Madame, but he's—" one of the doctors begins to protest, but Herta cuts him off with a sharp gesture.
"On one condition," she interjects, her tone leaving no room for argument. "Ten more minutes." She turns to the medical staff, issuing rapid-fire instructions. "Accelerate his metabolism. Scan the stub and left arm. I want a prototype prosthetic immediately. It won't be combat-ready, but it'll suffice for now."
Xander's eyes widen in realization. "You mean—"
"Yes, you insufferable child," Herta says, a hint of anticipation creeping into her exasperated tone. "Asta and I have analyzed your proposal. We'll provide the necessary resources. Don't make us regret this decision."
Asta steps forward, a hint of pride in her smile. "I've already leveraged my connections within the IPC. High-ranking officials are mobilizing resources as we speak. Medical equipment, supplies, everything you'll need. It should all be ready within the next 3 to 4 system hours. That's the fastest we can manage, given the scale of the operation."
"And make no mistake," Herta interjects, moving closer to Xander's bedside. Her purple eyes fix intently on his face. "This mobilization of resources comes at a price. You'll repay us in results and data. I expect you to deliver on every promise you made in that video, and then—"
Her words are cut short as Xander suddenly moves. In one swift motion, he uses his teeth to unhook the remaining IVs, eliciting a collective gasp from the medical team. But before anyone can react, he sits up and wraps his single arm around both Herta's doll form and Asta, pulling them into a tight embrace.
"Thank you... so much," he whispers, his voice thick with emotion.
Asta and Herta tense for a moment, caught off guard by the sudden display of affection. Then, slowly, Asta returns the hug, her arms encircling Xander gently. Herta, for her part, doesn't reciprocate, but she allows herself to be held. Her small hands come to rest on Xander's arm, a silent acknowledgment of his gratitude.
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I materialize in a flurry of data, the familiar chill of Belobog's air biting at my skin. Snow drifts lazily down from an impossibly pristine sky, coating the streets in a blanket of white. It's surreal, seeing the city as it once was - before the devastation, before my interference.
A bitter laugh escapes my lips. How fitting that the simulated universe chose this particular stage for our confrontation.
My gaze drifts to the newly installed prosthetic, Herta's words echoing in my mind.
"Listen carefully, test subject. This prosthetic is a temporary solution, not a marvel of engineering. It's constructed primarily from rapidly prototyped components based on our hasty scans. The structural integrity will likely fail under significant stress. Use it judiciously if you want it to last more than five minutes in your reckless endeavors."
I flex the metallic fingers, watching as servos whir and plates shift. The arm is a skeletal thing, all exposed wiring and unfinished edges. No synth-skin to mask its true nature, just raw function given form. It's a far cry from the seamless integration I've seen in Belobog, with Luka's and Oleg's advanced prosthetics. But it'll have to do.
"Beggars can't be choosers," I mutter, a wry smile tugging at my lips. It's almost comical, really. Belobog, cut off from the rest of the universe for so long, has nearly perfected the art of custom limbs. And here I am, relying on this cobbled-together appendage from one of the most advanced space stations in existence.
I close my eyes, drawing in a deep breath. The cold air fills my lungs, grounding me in this moment. "Focus," I tell myself. "Imagine him. See him."
In my mind's eye, I conjure the image of Welt Yang. I see him as I did through the viewport of the Astral Express - a lone figure standing against the void, defying the very fabric of space with his power. I picture his resolution, his unwavering resolve as he faced down an armada that could shatter worlds.
"Imagine that power," I whisper, my voice barely audible above the soft crunch of snow beneath my feet.
As if responding to my thoughts, reality itself seems to bend. The air crackles with energy, and in a shower of blue sparks, Welt Yang materializes before me. Gravity distorts around him, black and red lightning arcing between his fingertips. He adjusts his glasses, an amused smile playing at the corners of his mouth as the maelstrom of power subsides.
"Well, this is certainly unexpected," Welt says, studying his hands with measured curiosity. He flexes his fingers, as if testing the boundaries of this simulation. "I wonder what my real self would think, being recreated in such detail."
I meet his gaze, a mix of gratitude and desperation welling up inside me. "Welt," I begin, my voice thick with emotion, "I've seen only glimpses of what you're capable of. The battles you've faced, the worlds you've saved... I can scarcely imagine."
I swallow hard, pushing down the lump in my throat. "I'm not... I'm not strong enough. Not yet. Maybe not ever. But I need your help, Welt. I need you to buy us time."
Welt regards me for a long moment, his expression unreadable. When he speaks, his voice carries a hint of dry amusement. "Did you think I'd refuse? You've seen what I'm capable of, Xander. You know the lengths I'm going to for Jarilo-VI, buying time for you and the Astral Express."
He pauses, his gaze drifting. "I wonder about the experiences that shaped me. It's not pure altruism driving my actions. Like you, I must have people to protect and come back to, reasons to fight that go beyond the greater good."
Welt's eyes refocus, sharp and clear. "Stand tall, hero. I can sense Belobog's plight through your thoughts. Your plan is reckless, yes, but these times call for boldness. I'll match your determination step for step. After all, it's not the cautious who change the course of history."
Before I can respond, a familiar voice cuts through the air. "Count us in too." Himeko materializes beside Welt, her eyes gleaming with decisiveness.
"Don't leave us out," March adds, appearing with Dan Heng. "Our 'brother' needs us, after all."
My vision blurs as tears well up. March's smile is warm, her voice gentle. "I made you a promise, Xander. When you need a friend, I'm here."
I lower my gaze, overwhelmed. "Everyone..."
"Go," Dan says, his usual stoicism softening. "We'll clear the path ahead."
They turn, readying their weapons as Fragmentum monsters materialize in the distance. The simulation's challenge begins, but this time, I'm not alone.
"Face your demons, Alexander," March calls back. "We believe in you."
I clench my fists, flesh and metal alike, steeling myself. "I won't let you down."
"We know," they respond as one, their confidence unwavering.
Welt slams his cane into the ground, sending ripples of distorted gravity outward. Sparks of otherworldly energy swirl around him as March summons her bow, Dan readies his lance, and Himeko's buzzsaw drone springs to life.
I take one last look at them, drinking in the sight of my friends - my family - prepared to fight for me. Then I close my eyes and lower myself to the ground, crossing my legs as the sounds of battle erupt around me.
I reach deep within myself, pushing past the noise and chaos. The world fades away, sound becoming muffled and then silent. I sink into the darkness of my own mind, falling deeper and deeper until...
A faint golden pulse in the distance catches my attention. I move towards it, drawn by its rhythm. As I approach, the orb grows clearer, more defined. I stand before it, watching as it shifts and changes.
The Stellaron within me takes form, morphing from an amorphous blob into a humanoid shape. Slowly, agonizingly, it resolves into a familiar figure - Nanook, the Aeon of Destruction.
I meet its gaze unflinchingly, my voice steady as I speak.
"Let's talk, Stellaron. It's time we had an actual conversation, you and I."
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Dan Heng's eyes snap open as the ground beneath him shudders violently. The air fills with panicked screams and the sound of crumbling stone. Another wave of tremors rocks Belobog's underworld, sending dust and debris cascading from weakened structures.
He grits his teeth, fighting against the instinct to retreat into himself. The chaos around him threatens to drag him back into the depths of memories he'd rather forget. But as he watches people scrambling for safety, a different kind of decision takes hold.
Dan takes a deep breath, exhaling slowly. His form shimmers, water rippling across his skin as he transforms. The change is both familiar and alien, a reminder of the self he once was and the person he's become.
In that moment, Dan thinks of Xander – of the unwavering resolve he showed in facing his own demons. Even if only for a moment, even if it's uncomfortable and painful, Dan decides to match that resolution with his own.
He closes his eyes, reaching deep within himself. The ground continues to shake, but Dan's focus turns inward. He lets his consciousness drift, allowing himself to sink into the storm of memories he's kept locked away for so long.
In the dim abyss devoid of light, he seems to have returned to the insides of a Vidyadhara egg, being ceaselessly churned in tumultuous waves and elusive dreams. He dreams of the Dracocatena Nails being staked into his body, and chains of corallium winding around him to hang him in midair in the Shackling Prison. He dreams of the elders coming and going to interrogate him about the truth of the Arcanum and the whereabouts of the dragon heart. He does not speak.
He dreams of the Judges coming before him to read their decision and wanting to sentence him to death. He does not speak.
He dreams of the white-haired Cloud Knight Lieutenant coming to visit him and bringing him news of the Lieutenant's negotiations. The Vidyadhara did not permit him to die, nor did they permit him to leave. He does not speak.
He dreams he was raising his cup to drink with the others again, that he molted off his scales, and that he returned to the egg, and became someone else.
He dreams many, many things, like a never-ending immersia entitled "Self."
Following the immersia is an even clearer but unreachable illusion. He sees himself being exiled. He sees himself boarding an express. He sees himself running into the endless stars, never looking back.
The memories wash over him, threatening to pull him under. But Dan doesn't let them consume him. Instead, he lets them flow through him, acknowledging their presence without drowning in their weight.
As another tremor shakes the ground, Dan's eyes snap open. He rises, his form shimmering as he fully embraces, if only for now, no matter how painful, the ghost of his past identity. Water ripples across his skin, his hair billowing as if caught in an unseen current.
"It's time," he murmurs, his voice carrying an otherworldly resonance.
Dan summons forth his dragon, prepared to carry out the duty entrusted to him. He lets go — letting his consciousness disappear in storms and hails, letting thunder roar for him, letting tsunamis rage for him. He floats above the ground, an azure, ethereal dragon with skin that ripples like water surrounding him. Those nearby can only stare in awe at the sight.
As new rubble and pieces of earth begin to fall, Dan's eyes blaze with energy. The dragon shoots up from the ground into the air at his silent command, intercepting the incoming debris and destroying it in a spectacular display of power.
"I'll hold the line until you come back," Dan thinks. He knows the weight his friend carries, the battles he fights both within and without.
For now, Dan will do what he can to protect those who cannot protect themselves.
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The Stellaron's voice ripples through the void, distorting reality with each word. "What do you hope to achieve here, Xander? You seek cooperation, understanding. But can you truly bridge the gap between our existences?"
Xander offers a wry smile, his eyes betraying a hint of weariness. "We've had our moments of synchronicity. I thought we were building rapport."
"Rapport?" The Stellaron's laughter is a discordant echo that sends shivers through the fabric of space. "We've indulged in destruction together, true. But don't mistake necessity for camaraderie. You're an anomaly, a cage of unfathomable origin. Our compliance is... involuntary."
Xander chuckles darkly, his mind flashing back to the moment he first realized his predicament. "Oh, believe me, the feeling's mutual. If I'd known I'd be hosting the cosmic equivalent of cancer, I might have reconsidered my life choices. But here we are, bound by a purpose neither of us fully grasps."
The Stellaron circles Xander, Nanook's form appraising silently. Its presence radiates an ancient, incomprehensible power that makes the air around them hum with tension. "You cling to delusions, mortal. Your faith, your theories of divine intervention – they're comforting lies in the face of an indifferent universe."
"And your certainty of universal suffering is any less a delusion?" Xander counters, his voice steady despite the tremor of fear he feels in his core. "You claim to seek an end to pain, yet you cause immeasurable agony in pursuit of that goal. How do you reconcile that paradox?"
The Stellaron's form shimmers with barely contained rage, its anger manifesting as ripples of destructive energy that threaten to tear apart the very fabric of their surroundings. "Existence itself is the source of all suffering. We offer oblivion as the ultimate mercy."
Their debate rages on, neither side willing to concede ground. The air grows thick with tension, charged with the weight of their conflicting ideologies. Finally, Xander sighs, his shoulders sagging slightly under the burden of what he knows he must do. "Look, I need to understand you to face what's coming. Show me your truth, as terrible as it may be."
The Stellaron's face twists into a cruel smile, its voice a seductive whisper. "Are you certain you want to peer behind the curtain, Xander? Once you've glimpsed the true nature of existence, there's no unseeing it. You'll be compelled to embrace the void, to end the charade of life itself."
Xander's fingers close around his cross pendant, his eyes glinting with a hint of madness. "Enlighten me," he challenges, his voice barely above a whisper.
The Stellaron's ethereal hand plunges into Xander's chest, reality fracturing around the point of contact. Cosmic energy surges through him, igniting every nerve with the fury of a collapsing star.
Visions cascade through Xander's mind: civilizations reduced to cosmic dust, galaxies imploding under their own weight, billions of lives snuffed out in an instant. The universe itself seems to cry out in anguish, a cacophony of suffering that threatens to shatter his sanity.
The Stellaron's voice cuts through the chaos, dripping with vindication. "Behold the truth of existence, Xander. This isn't isolated to Belobog – it's the universal constant. War, suffering, destruction – they're woven into the very fabric of reality. Your precious children, the countless species you champion – all born into a crucible of pain. And for what? To perpetuate this cosmic farce?!"
Its tone rises, becoming almost manic. "Why cling to this illusion of life? Does the suffering of countless billions mean nothing to you, so long as your white-haired ward is safe? What of the people you once dismissed as mere constructs? Where is your compassion now?!"
Xander remains silent, his jaw clenched so tight it threatens to shatter. He doesn't beg for respite, doesn't cry out. He endures.
The Stellaron presses its advantage, its words sharp as knives. "Can't you see the futility of it all? The endless cycle of creation and destruction? We offer the only true mercy – an end to the grand delusion of existence itself!"
An eternity passes before the Stellaron withdraws. Xander collapses, gasping for air that doesn't exist in this non-space.
"Do you understand now?" the Stellaron asks, its voice tinged with something almost like hope.
Xander nods weakly. "Yes... I understand."
The Stellaron extends its hand, an offer of alliance. "Then join us. Together, we can bring about the final act of compassion – the end of all suffering."
Xander grasps the offered hand, using it to pull himself up. "I wasn't finished," he says, his voice gaining strength.
"I understand that you – and by extension, Nanook – are trapped in the same delusion I once was."
Confusion ripples across the Stellaron's form.
Xander's face contorts into a rictus grin, his eyes blazing with an inner fire. "You speak of ending suffering as if it's noble, but you've missed the fundamental point. You've forgotten how to value existence itself."
He leans in, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper. "When I first awakened here, I saw everything as unreal, as worthless. But you? You've taken that to a cosmic scale. You speak of ending suffering, but you can't even comprehend the value of a single life. You've lost all capacity for true empathy."
Xander's grip tightens, becoming painful. "To raze worlds, to annihilate billions of families without remorse – it requires a complete disconnection from the value of existence. You inflict suffering without feeling it because you've lost the ability to truly connect. You became an avatar of destruction, and in doing so, you destroyed your own capacity to understand what you're destroying."
His eyes blaze with certainty. "Now, it's your turn to remember."
Without warning, Xander plunges his left hand into the Stellaron's chest. The cosmic entity recoils in shock.
"I WILL MAKE YOU UNDERSTAND!" Xander roars, his voice echoing through the void. "I'LL FORCE YOU TO FEEL THE WEIGHT OF YOUR ACTIONS, TO FILL THE VOID IN YOUR COMPREHENSION! I'LL MAKE YOU REMEMBER WHAT YOU'VE LOST!"
The Stellaron struggles, its form flickering. "IMPOSSIBLE! YOUR MIND SHOULD BE SHATTERED, OVERWHELMED BY DESPAIR!"
"I AM NOT ALONE!" Xander declares.
Suddenly, the Stellaron is awash in unfamiliar sensations – emotions long forgotten, threatening to tear it apart from within.
"WHAT IS THIS?" it screams, realizing the source of its agony – Xander's cross, burning like a star in its chest, and the torrent of human experience flooding its consciousness. "HOW... HOW ARE YOU DOING THIS?!"
Xander, ablaze with righteous fury, thunders back, "IF YOU DARE TO ADVOCATE FOR UNIVERSAL DESTRUCTION, THEN HAVE THE BALLS TO FACE THE SUFFERING YOU INFLICT!"
"ABOMINATION!" The Stellaron howls as it's assaulted by Xander's memories and emotions. It experiences flashes of his life: a mother's sacrifice, a father's dedication, the bonds of brotherhood, the tenderness of love, the innocence of children saved.
The visions continue relentlessly: triumph and tragedy, suffering and joy, the hard-won wisdom of a life fully lived. The Stellaron feels the weight of Xander's regrets, his internal struggles, and the solace he found in his faith – not as an escape, but as a wellspring of strength and love.
"I'VE LEARNED TO CHERISH EVEN THE HARDSHIPS OF MY LIFE," Xander declares, his voice raw with emotion. "EVERY TRIAL HAS BEEN A GIFT, SHAPING ME INTO WHO I AM!"
He presses on, his words a torrent of passion and conviction. "I REJECT YOUR IDEOLOGY! LIFE ITSELF IS THE GIFT! YES, IT COMES WITH SUFFERING, BUT THAT DOESN'T NEGATE ITS VALUE! I DON'T HAVE ALL THE ANSWERS, BUT I KNOW THIS: WHILE I LIVE, I HAVE THE POWER TO EFFECT CHANGE. I DON'T DEMAND THE UNIVERSE SOLVE WHAT I CAN ADDRESS MYSELF!"
With a primal roar, Xander thrusts his prosthetic arm into the Stellaron's chest alongside his left. "NOW FACE THE TRUTH, YOU COSMIC PARASITE! CONFRONT MY MEMORIES, MY ESSENCE, AS I'VE FACED YOURS! CAN YOU WITHSTAND THE FULL SPECTRUM OF HUMAN EXPERIENCE?!"
The Stellaron writhes and screams, its form pulsing with blinding light. The very fabric of reality trembles, threatening to tear apart under the weight of their clash.
In that moment of searing brilliance, as the boundary between mortal and cosmic blurs, everything shatters.