Zenithar – Industrial Sector
5 December 1077 – 02:10 AM
Raiga stepped into the hideout.
Behind him, the garage door shut with a metallic thud, sealing the room in the darkness of the night.
Every step sent a jolt of pain through his injured shoulder.
Blood trickled down his arm, soaking into the fabric of his jacket, but he paid it no mind. He had never given much importance to pain.
Liara was already seated in front of her screens, fingers moving swiftly across the keyboard. Her eyes scanned the data as she recalled the drones to base and erased every electronic trace of their presence.
She was silent.
Too silent.
Raiga noticed immediately. Her movements were sharper than usual, her breathing short, her shoulders tense.
With a weary motion, he removed his gear, letting his holster and sword drop beside the bed. Then he collapsed onto the mattress, exhaling slowly, as if the weight of the night had finally slipped off his shoulders.
Liara hesitated for a moment.
Then she stood up.
The sound of her footsteps broke the silence.
Raiga cracked an eye open just enough to see her standing beside him.
Her expression seemed irritated, but in her eyes, there was something deeper.
Anger. Disappointment.
"Get up."
Her voice was firm.
Raiga sighed, closing his eyes again. "It's nothing."
Liara didn't even let him finish.
"I said, get up."
Raiga opened his eyes and looked at her.
She crossed her arms. "You're covered in blood."
He remained still for a few seconds, then pulled himself up without another word, allowing her firm grip to guide him to the chair beside the table.
Liara retrieved the medical kit and began cleaning the wound.
Raiga expected a scolding.
He expected her to explode, to launch into the usual lecture about how he'd gone too far, how they couldn't afford to take such risks.
But Liara said nothing.
She soaked a cotton pad in alcohol and pressed it to the wound with more force than necessary.
Raiga hissed softly through his teeth.
Liara didn't apologize.
She disinfected the wound, wrapped it with practiced precision, then stood up and returned to her drones.
Raiga watched her for a moment.
Something was different.
Her silence weighed more than any shouting ever could.
That was when he realized—he had truly made her angry.
And it bothered him.
A subtle irritation, burrowing into him like a parasite.
But he had no regrets.
He wouldn't have done anything differently.
He stood up, went back to the bed, and lay down again, ignoring the pain in his shoulder.
Liara continued working, never turning around.
The sound of her typing was the only noise in the room.
Neither of them spoke another word.
And the silence between them became an abyss.
Raiga sat still for a moment longer, then exhaled, pushing himself up from the bed. Without a word, he grabbed his jacket and headed for the stairs.
Liara watched him go, her fingers pausing over the keyboard.
She already knew where he was going.
Zenithar – Hideout Rooftop – 02:15 AM
The night air was cold. Crisp.
Raiga sat on the edge of the rooftop, one knee up, an arm draped over it as he stared at the sky.
Zenithar stretched endlessly beneath him, a labyrinth of steel and concrete swallowed by flickering neon and perpetual smog. But above it—above the filth, the smoke, the endless war—there was only silence.
Only the stars.
He exhaled slowly, watching his breath vanish into the night.
A faint creak of metal behind him.
He didn't turn.
Liara.
She sat down beside him, close enough for warmth but not enough to touch.
For a while, neither of them spoke.
Then, softly—
"You always do this."
Raiga arched a brow but didn't look at her. "Do what?"
She hugged her knees to her chest. "Come up here when something's eating at you."
Raiga scoffed, gaze still on the sky. "Nothing's eating at me."
Liara didn't buy it for a second. "Right."
Another silence.
She tilted her head back, letting her eyes wander across the vast expanse above them.
It wasn't often you could see the stars in Zenithar. The smog was too thick, the city too bright. But tonight—by some miracle—they were there. Tiny, distant, indifferent.
She smiled, barely.
"You ever wonder what's out there?"
Raiga finally turned to look at her.
Liara's eyes were fixed on the sky, reflecting the starlight like fragments of something long lost.
"What do you mean?"
She shrugged. "Beyond all of this. Beyond Zenithar. Beyond the world we know."
Raiga followed her gaze, letting the thought settle.
There was a time he might have asked the same thing. But now—
"There's nothing," he muttered.
Liara frowned slightly, but there was no real surprise in her expression. "You don't know that."
Silence again.
Liara hesitated, then turned to him, her voice softer than before.
"Tell me, Raiga… don't you ever wish you could live forever?"
Raiga's fingers tightened slightly against his knee.
For a second, something in his chest twisted—but he didn't know why.
Liara didn't break eye contact. She wasn't teasing, wasn't playing games.
She was serious.
Raiga scoffed. "What kind of question is that?"
Liara looked away, back to the stars.
"I don't know. Just… if we could keep going. If we didn't have to worry about time running out."
Raiga studied her for a moment.
She wasn't talking about herself.
She was talking about them.
About the fragile, fleeting nature of whatever this was—this life they were barely holding together.
Raiga leaned back on his hands, exhaling.
"No."
Liara turned to him again, surprised. "No?"
He met her gaze, unreadable. "No one should live forever."
Liara searched his face for something—for anything—but he had already shut the door.
She sighed, shaking her head.
"You're impossible."
Raiga smirked, just slightly. "Took you this long to figure that out?"
Liara rolled her eyes, but there was no real irritation in it.
She let her head rest against her arms, staring at the sky once more.
"…I still want to know what's out there," she murmured.
Raiga said nothing.
Because deep down, a part of him did too.
But unlike Liara—
He wasn't sure he wanted the answer.
Zenithar – Military Transit Zone – 06:03 AM
Light
Cold. Merciless.
The first light of dawn reflected off the streets of Zenithar, revealing the horror the night had left behind.
Bodies lay motionless, scattered across the asphalt like puppets with their strings cut. Blood, still fresh, seeped through the cracks in the pavement, painting a mosaic of dark crimson. The armored vehicles had been reduced to smoking carcasses, their doors torn open, their cargo missing.
No one dared to approach.
Not the mercenaries, not the criminals who prowled these streets like vultures. The usual murmur of the slums had fallen silent, replaced by a heavy, foreboding hush.
This wasn't just an attack.
It was a massacre.
An execution.
Even the air felt charged with fear. It was as if the city itself was holding its breath, dreading that whatever had happened here might still return.
"Who the fuck did this…?"
A man with a face hollowed by time ran a trembling hand through his unkempt beard. Another spat on the ground, tracing a symbol over his chest—the mark of the Church of Eternity —as if warding off a demon.
"Could've been a mercenary group? Someone after the cargo?"
"I don't know… but look at how they died."
Their voices dropped.
No explosions. No distant attack.
"They killed them. One by one."
The whispers spread like wildfire through the alleys, the underground bars, the black markets.
But no one had an answer.
A battered van rumbled down the decayed streets, weaving between debris and the charred husks of cars. The engine coughed with every pothole, its interior reeking of oil, gunpowder, and spoiled food.
At the wheel was a young man with short, dark hair, his sharp eyes flicking nervously from one side of the road to the other.
Kael.
A veteran of the Resistance. One of the few still daring to defy the government and the Cult of Eternal Light.
In the passenger seat, hood pulled low over his eyes, sat Allen. Younger. More impulsive. His fingers clenched around the grip of his pistol too tightly.
When the van rolled past the scene of the massacre, neither of them spoke.
The stench of death seeped into the cabin.
Kael pressed his lips together, easing up on the gas. Allen leaned forward, eyes wide as he took in the carnage.
"Fuck…" Allen muttered.
Kael's grip on the steering wheel tightened.
"It was him."
"Are you sure?"
Kael nodded.
"Who else could have done this?"
Silence stretched between them.
No one had ever seen his face. No one truly knew who he was.
But the legend walked in the shadows.
Some whispered his name—the Shadow of Zenithar.
To others, he was nothing more than a faceless weapon, a creature born from war.
But to the Resistance, he was something far more dangerous.
An uncontrollable variable.
Zenithar – Industrial Sector – 09:45 AM
The light of dawn filtered through the shattered windows, casting golden reflections on the worn walls of the old warehouse. The air was still, the silence broken only by the steady rhythm of Raiga's breath as he slept on a makeshift mattress in the corner of the room.
Next to him, perched on the edge of the interior balcony, Liara swung her legs over the void, her gaze lost in the sky as it bled into shades of crimson.
She hadn't slept. She couldn't.
The moment she closed her eyes, the images of the previous night returned—like poison burning in her chest.
Blood.
Stifled screams.
Terrified eyes.
The man begging for mercy.
And Raiga…
Raiga who hadn't stopped.
Liara clenched her fists against her knees.
She knew the pain he carried inside. She knew the army had taken everything from him.
But what she had seen last night—it wasn't just anger.
It was hatred.
Blind. Corrosive.
She turned, her gaze falling on Raiga's sleeping face.
Asleep, he looked like someone else.
Not the ruthless warrior who had massacred eight men with the cold precision of a predator.
But the eight-year-old boy who had once played with her, long ago.
A familiar weight settled in her chest.
Raiga deserved better. But the world had never given him anything.
Liara lowered her gaze, the lump in her throat nearly unbearable.
Then, a metallic sound shattered the silence.
The holographic display on her wristwatch lit up.
Liara pressed the answer button.
A man's image flickered above the device—graying hair, scars crossing his face, eyes as hard as iron.
Garret.
Leader of the Resistance in Zenithar.
Raiga and Liara's mentor.
"How are you holding up, kid?"
His voice was rough, but there was a faint trace of warmth in it.
Liara sighed.
"Let's just say I slept like shit."
Garret nodded slowly.
"That idiot pushed too far again, didn't he?"
Liara lowered her gaze. "…Yeah."
A heavy silence. Then, the truth.
"…We're the ones pushing him to do it. Every time."
Garret remained still. Then, he lowered his head.
"…You're right." His voice dropped, heavier now. "We're just as guilty as he is."
Liara ran a hand through her hair.
"I don't want him to lose himself, Garret."
Garret looked at her, something dark in his eyes.
"I know."
Then, his voice regained its usual pragmatic tone.
"Let's make sure these sacrifices mean something. Do you have the device?"
Liara nodded, pushing the thoughts away. "We have it. I just need to configure it."
"Good. I'll be waiting at the rendezvous point."
She was about to end the call when Garret spoke again, his gaze steady.
"Hey."
She hesitated. "What?"
"Don't let the guilt eat you up." His voice was firm, but sincere. "That idiot—and all of us—need you. Don't forget that."
Liara pressed her lips together.
For a brief moment, the iron wall she had built inside herself wavered.
"…I know. Thanks, Garret."
The man gave a small nod, then ended the call.
Liara remained still, sitting on the edge of the balcony.
She looked at Raiga, still fast asleep.
Then, she lifted her gaze to the rising sun.
One day, she wanted to see him smile, without a blade in his hands.
But maybe…
It was already too late.
Aetheria, Capital of Yuron – Military Command – 11:10 AM
The silence in the operations room was thick with tension.
Five officers sat around the steel table, the holographic images hovering before them casting a cold glow over their incredulous faces.
Eight soldiers massacred.
Vehicles reduced to wreckage.
No survivors.
One of the officers swallowed hard, his breathing slightly unsteady.
"We've found another one."
The words hung in the air, heavy as a sentence.
No one responded immediately. One of them, a man with a tense expression and eyes hollowed by exhaustion, slowly shook his head in disbelief.
"…After all this time…"
Silence.
A thought, unspoken yet undeniable, lingered in the room.
Another officer—the oldest among them—ran a hand over the printed report before him, as if to reassure himself that it was real.
"If he's like the other one, we have a serious problem."
No one dared to comment.
A metallic sound echoed through the room.
The door swung open.
Everyone snapped to their feet as a figure entered with heavy steps.
A towering figure stepped in—his face a battlefield of scars, his gaze cold, unreadable as steel.
Commander Varos.
He strode forward without a word, studying the images before him. Then, in a firm, commanding voice, he gave a single order:
"Prepare yourselves. We leave for Zenithar."