Zenithar – Outskirts, Highway to the Resistance HQ
6 December 1077 – 09:55 PM
The Hammer roared through the ruined highways, its massive armored frame cutting through the night like a steel beast. The vehicle—an old military transport—had been modified far beyond its original design.
Liara had spent months turning it into something that could survive anything Zenithar threw at them. Reinforced plating, an adaptive cloaking system, internal EMP shielding, automated turrets, drone integration—this wasn't just a transport.
It was their fortress on wheels.
Inside, the atmosphere was thick.
Raiga sat in the driver's seat, his hands gripping the wheel with quiet intensity. His gaze was fixed ahead, his mind elsewhere.
Liara sat beside him, her fingers drumming against the control panel, her leg bouncing slightly—nervous energy she couldn't shake.
The silence between them was heavy.
She hated it.
She stole a glance at Raiga. He was still as a statue, his expression unreadable, his jaw tight. His grip on the wheel was steady—too steady.
Liara bit her lip.
She wanted to say something—anything—to break this unbearable tension.
She had pushed him too hard. She knew that.
Raiga wasn't someone who handled questions well—especially when he didn't have the answers himself. And now he was shutting her out, retreating behind that cold, unbreakable wall of his.
It wasn't the first time.
But for some reason, this time it hurt more.
Her fingers hovered over the control panel. She scanned the vehicle's systems—everything was running smoothly, as always. She already knew that. But maybe…
Maybe she could use it as an excuse to talk to him.
She cleared her throat.
"All systems operational."
Raiga gave a small nod, not looking at her.
She hesitated, then pushed forward.
"Did you check your gear?"
A beat of silence. Then, a quiet, curt reply.
"Yeah."
One word. Nothing more.
Liara exhaled softly.
Alright. This was going to be harder than she thought.
She tried again.
"Raiga, I—"
"We're here."
Raiga reached up and tapped his earpiece.
"Call Garret."
Liara hesitated for a fraction of a second. Then she sighed and activated the comms.
Zenithar – Resistance HQ – 10:12 PM
The Hammer came to a slow, rumbling stop in front of the entrance. The industrial ruins around them loomed like broken skeletons, remnants of a world that no longer existed.
Two guards emerged from the shadows, their rifles slung over their shoulders. Their uniforms were a patchwork of scavenged military gear, the only semblance of order in a world drowning in chaos.
One of them raised a hand, signaling for Raiga to halt.
"Identify yourselves."
Liara lowered the window.
"Relax, we're expected."
The guard's gaze flickered between her and Raiga, his grip tightening on his weapon. He knew who they were. Everyone did.
Before he could say anything, a crackling voice came through his earpiece.
"Let them pass."
The guard hesitated for a second. Then, with a sharp nod, he stepped aside and motioned to the other soldier.
The gates slid open.
Raiga drove forward, maneuvering the Hammer into the underground tunnel leading to the Resistance's hidden stronghold.
As they descended into the Resistance stronghold, the underground city revealed itself before them.
Rows of barracks and armories, vast storage facilities stacked with crates of supplies and weapons, makeshift command centers buzzing with strategic discussions.
This wasn't some scattered, desperate rebellion.
This was a well-structured military force.
"Whoa."
Liara leaned forward, pressing her hands against the dashboard, eyes wide in admiration.
She let out a low whistle.
"Okay, I take back what I said before… These guys aren't just surviving. They're thriving."
She grinned, shifting to look at Raiga. "Come on, even you have to admit this is impressive."
Raiga didn't reply.
Not because he disagreed. But because he did agree.
The Resistance wasn't just a scattered insurgency—it was an army in the making.
He parked the Hammer near one of the main storage areas.
As soon as they stepped out, all eyes in the atrium turned toward them.
Some curious. Some hostile. Some awestruck.
"That's them, huh?"
A young resistance fighter leaned against a metal crate, arms crossed, whispering to his companion.
"The Shadows of Zenithar."
His friend, a girl with short-cropped hair and a bandaged arm, scoffed.
"I don't buy it. They say he's taken down entire squads alone—but I think it's just exaggerated stories."
The young man smirked. "Tell that to the bodies he leaves behind."
A few feet away, another group had a different take.
"They're reckless," muttered an older soldier, voice rough with disapproval. "They're going to get us all killed."
"You say that, but have you seen what they do out there?"
"Yeah, and that's what worries me."
The whispers continued, a mix of awe and doubt, admiration and resentment.
And then—
"Hey, shut up. Look."
A younger recruit, barely out of his teens, stood near the back of the atrium, staring at Raiga with wide eyes. His voice was filled with something else entirely.
Hope.
"He's the reason I joined."
Raiga, walking past, heard him.
For the first time that night, his gaze flickered sideways, meeting the boy's eyes.
Liara turned too.
She saw the admiration in the kid's face, the sheer belief in his voice.
Slowly, she glanced at Raiga.
A small smile curved her lips.
Did you hear that?
Her eyes seemed to say it for her.
Raiga didn't respond, but for a fraction of a second, something in his expression softened.
Then, as quickly as it appeared, it was gone.
He kept walking.
The main HQ entrance stood ahead—a reinforced steel door, guarded by two heavily armed sentries.
Standing between them was Kael.
His stance was firm, posture straight but relaxed—a man confident in his own authority.
His dark tactical gear was well-maintained, every holster and strap adjusted for efficiency. His sharp brown eyes studied Raiga and Liara as they approached.
Raiga didn't speak first.
He just stared.
Kael knew who he was dealing with. He'd seen the aftermath of Raiga's fights.
But he wasn't intimidated.
He stepped forward, offering his hand.
"Kael Varin." His tone was steady. "I handle most of the field operations here."
Liara immediately took his hand, her smile warm.
"Liara Voss." She gave him a firm shake. "We've heard a lot about you. Garret says you're one of the best tactical minds in the Resistance."
Kael smirked. "Garret exaggerates."
"I don't think he does," Liara countered.
Kael studied her for a second, then nodded slightly. He turned toward Raiga.
For a moment, there was only silence.
Then, Raiga spoke.
"I'm Raiga."
That was all.
Kael raised an eyebrow. "Not one for introductions, huh?"
Raiga's expression didn't change.
Kael let out a low chuckle, shaking his head. "Alright. I see how it is."
Then, he motioned toward the steel doors. "Follow me."
The doors slid open.
The underground Resistance awaited.
Aetheria – The Grand Cathedral of the Eternal Light – 09:30 PM
The cathedral loomed over the city like a titan of marble and gold. Its towering spires reached toward the heavens, bathed in the cold, artificial glow of Aetheria's city lights. Inside, the faithful gathered in rows, heads bowed, lips moving in silent devotion.
The air was thick with the scent of burning incense and old parchment. Massive stained-glass windows, depicting the First Testimony and the Great Cleansing, cast fragmented light across the grand hall, bathing the congregation in eerie hues of crimson, gold, and blue.
At the altar, a high-ranking preacher stood, arms outstretched. His voice carried through the vast chamber like rolling thunder, his words soaked in fire and certainty.
"Brothers and sisters, we gather here today as the faithful—those who have been spared, those who have been chosen.
Chosen to remember.
Chosen to atone.
Chosen to fear."
A hushed stillness settled over the worshippers, broken only by the flickering of candle flames.
The preacher's voice deepened, resonating with the weight of centuries of doctrine.
"A thousand years ago, the world was judged. Our ancestors, blinded by pride, defied the Divine Order. They pursued knowledge that was not meant for them. They sought to become more than what they were."
His fingers clenched into a fist.
"And so, the First Testimony was given."
The congregation murmured in agreement. Some nodded. Others made the sign of the Eternal Circle over their hearts.
"He came upon the earth, the First Witness. The Harbinger of our sins, the hand of judgment, the voice of the End."
His tone became a whisper, but the weight of it crushed the silence.
"He erased our impurity. He cast down the wicked and the defiled. And in his mercy, he left the faithful to rebuild."
A low murmur of prayer swept through the hall.
"But we must not forget," the preacher continued. "For just as the past has been buried, so too may it rise again."
The preacher's gaze swept over the congregation.
"The tainted blood still lingers. The cursed inheritance has not been fully purged. The sinners of old walk among us."
A heavy silence fell.
"And so, we must remain vigilant. We must obey. We must atone."
He spread his arms wide, his voice rising again.
"For the Eternal Light will protect only those who submit to its will."
The congregation erupted in a chant, repeating his words in reverent unison.
The sermon was over.
As the faithful began to disperse, moving toward the great doors of the cathedral, the preacher stepped down from the altar.
He walked slowly, his long golden robes trailing behind him, when—
A figure in a black military uniform approached him.
The sigil of the Yuronian Army gleamed on his shoulder.
The preacher stopped. His piercing gaze met the soldier's cold, disciplined eyes.
A brief silence passed between them.
Then, the soldier spoke, his voice low and measured.
"It happens tonight."
The preacher's eyes did not waver.
He nodded once.
"Is everything prepared?"
The soldier hesitated, then gave a slight bow of his head.
"The Commander is already en route. We are moving to secure the target."
The preacher exhaled slowly.
"Then let us pray the Eternal Light grants us success."
Without another word, he turned and strode toward a hidden door at the side of the cathedral. The soldier followed in silence.
The Inner Sanctum was a chamber concealed deep within the cathedral's walls.
Dimly lit by blue-flame lanterns, the room was lined with towering bookshelves, ancient scrolls, and relics encased in golden glass. In the center, a great stone table stood, carved with inscriptions in a forgotten language.
Around it, five figures sat in silence.
The highest priests of the Cult of Eternity. The true architects of the new world.
And opposite them, standing tall in his immaculate robes, was the preacher.
The eldest among them, a frail but sharp-eyed man, spoke first.
"You have confirmed it?"
The preacher inclined his head. "Yes. The Shadow of Zenithar is the one we seek."
A tense murmur swept through the table.
Another figure, clad in a mix of priestly garments and military insignias, leaned forward. His voice was sharp, impatient.
"Are we certain? There have been… mistakes before."
The preacher's eyes darkened.
"The reports are undeniable. His movements, his skill—he is unlike the rest."
A brief pause.
Then, a priestess with piercing emerald eyes whispered:
"Then he is Number Two."
Silence.
The words sent a ripple of tension through the room.
Number Two.
A designation that had not been spoken in years.
A figure with silver-streaked hair, draped in dark robes, exhaled deeply.
"If he truly is the second… we cannot allow him to remain uncontrolled."
At the far end, a priest leaned forward, his voice deliberate, slow.
"If he possesses even half the strength of Number One… it is already too late."
The words hung in the air like a death sentence.
The preacher's lips curled into a thin smile.
"Then we shall ensure he does not walk freely for much longer."
Another priest tapped the data slate before him, scrolling through encrypted documents.
"Varos is handling the operation personally?"
"Yes," the preacher confirmed. "The Commander has deployed his elite unit to extract the subject."
A long silence.
Then, one of the oldest priests leaned forward.
His voice was hoarse, his words edged with a grim certainty.
"If he resists?"
The preacher lowered his gaze slightly. Then, his lips parted.
"Then the Shadow of Zenithar will be erased."
Far from the cathedral's cold walls, a young man with piercing blue eyes walked the Resistance corridors—unaware that his fate had already been sealed.