Kaito's knees hit the floor like a verdict. He folded forward, hands splayed on the cold metal, breathing in ragged, stained pulls. Rage pooled under his skin — not the hot, useless anger of a child, but a slow, grinding fury that had been fed and starved and experimented on until it had teeth.
Sofia's boot tapped the floor beside him. She crouched, palm hovering an inch above his shoulder, and the air between them snapped tight. "Don't try anything," she said, voice flat as a scalpel. Her hand dropped and touched him like a clamp.
The effect was immediate: the black fog around his fist trembled and shrank. The pressure in his chest eased by a notch, as if someone had throttled the storm inside him. Kaito's fingers curled uselessly.
"Let me go," he snarled, voice raw. "I have to— I have to end them. As long as they breathe I can't— I won't have peace."
Sofia's eyes didn't flicker. She leaned in until their faces were a whisper apart, the light catching on the cold plane of her cheekbones. "Haven't you heard what I said?" she hissed, all the softness of a blade. "You'll stay here. Try to move and I'll take your energy again."
Her words were low, viciously deliberate. The hand on his shoulder tightened. The hold was not gentle; it was a lock, a claim.
Something like a smile crossed Kaito's face — not a smile of joy, but of raw defiance. "Leave me," he spat. "Or I'll fucking kill you, bitch."
Sofia's reply was a measured cruelty, the kind that belonged to people who'd learned how panic fractures under force. She looked at Carl over Kaito's head and said plainly, "I'll keep touching him. He'll be at half-power. If he makes even the slightest suspicious move—kill him."
Carl's jaw clicked. His hand hovered near the knife at his side. He didn't need orders to act; the command was a key that fit his instincts. He nodded once, like a soldier confirming an order.
Kaito's mind thundered in a cyclone of fury and calculus. This fucking bitch— the thought was sharp and hot. She thinks she can hold me. I will break free. But I don't want to die again. I won't let them do that to me. Not again. He tasted the memory—metal in his mouth, the sting of saline, the cold bright light—an old terror that quelled movement with memory. He could feel the line braided into his bones: step out, and it would be knives and needles and the lab waiting to unmake him.
He clenched his teeth until his jaw ached. Rational thought layered cold over the heat of revenge. Break free, yes. But when? Not now. Not while the cost is absolute death again. I'll survive. I'll wait.
Alia watched him with wet eyes, torn between pleading and the hard lessons of battle. "how do you know about the Eclipse power?" she said, voice small and urgent. "What you did—how can you sense that? How—"
Sofia's gaze slid to her, eyes unreadable. She rose a touch, unhooking her hand from Kaito's shoulder but keeping her palm close enough to touch again in a second. Her voice was quiet and flat. "Fern used us," she said. "They took me and my brother and forced us into the experiment. We were supposed to become hosts—Eclipse carriers. It didn't work."
She swallowed, and for the first time the hardness on her face cracked like ice under heat. "They kept us in capsules for months. They poked, they injected, they fed us samples and chemicals, and they logged our reactions like we were instruments. We never ignited the way they wanted. The process failed. But we were left with traces—abilities half-formed. I can break certain patterns. Carl can take damage and keep moving. We were meant to be perfected; instead we were shelved."
Carl's laugh was soft and humorless. "We didn't get their crown. We got the hangman's noose and a 'try again' note."
Alia's hand trembled on Kaito's forearm. "Why would you—why would you help us then? If you hate Fern so much—" Her words snagged on the raw truth they both already felt: survival beats ideology when the lights go out and the doors open.
Sofia's look sharpened. "We didn't help you for heroism." She met Kaito's eyes like a challenge and something else—recognition. "We came because the place is not a home. We came because life inside the capsules is less than nothing. We came because we couldn't stand the waiting rooms of experiments and being fed the idea that our lives were property. If we can leave with someone useful—or not useful at all—so be it."
Carl, who had been leaning against the wall, flexed his fingers slowly. "If he is the Eclipse boy," he said bluntly, "he's dangerous. We don't want that thing around breathing down our necks. But we also don't want to go back. So we keep him weak enough not to blow us up, and strong enough to use if necessary."
Kaito glared at them both. His mouth moved but no sound came before he realized the futility of screaming. Even fury had to be measured in the calculus of survival. He measured himself against the heat of his pain and the cold certainty in Sofia's eyes. I will not be a casualty to someone else's escape plan.
Sofia stood and moved around him, her shadow crossing his face. She was a quiet kind of authority—no theatrics, no paternalism. "We need to move," she said. "Staying in this hallway is a waste. Systems will wake any minute. If we're not out, security will sweep and then we're back in the tanks."
Alia pushed to her feet, wiping her cheeks with the back of her hand. "Where will we go?" she asked.
"Maintenance egress," Carl answered. "There's a service route that leads to the sub-basement. I can force it open." He nodded at Sofia. "Let him walk. Half power keeps him from surging without killing him. If he tries to bolt, I'll snap his spine in a place that'll make him useful when he's conscious."
The threat hung there like sharpened wire. Kaito's eyes burned. He could feel that wire's heat; the promise of pain was present and immediate. But even under the weight of threat, a sliver of relief cut through him—there was movement, a plan, and for now he would be allowed to live and carry the names of his enemies around like a ledger.
He rose with effort, each motion a negotiated victory. Sofia's hand slid back to his shoulder—not to hold but to anchor—and for a breath it felt like contact rather than constraint. The pressure lessened, calibrated rather than strangled. Kaito drew in air and let it out with a sound that was close to a laugh, but it was ragged and far from joy.
"Move," Sofia said, blunt and efficient. "We don't have forever."
They went. Slow at first, then with gathering speed. The corridor swallowed their footsteps. Somewhere in the dark, machines that had been dormant began to stir. A distant alarm coughed once and then fell into an irregular tremor—an omen.
Kaito limped, but he walked. His shoulder throbbed where Sofia's fingers had been. The pain was like a promise: it would teach him patience and precision. It would not let his rage sweep him blind.
---
The air reeked of metal and blood. Every swing of their blades tore through the silence like thunder cracking through bone.
Alane stood with one knee slightly bent, his crimson sword trembling faintly as red steam coiled from its edge. His breath came in measured bursts—each inhale dragging pain through his chest. "So it's time to use my last measures," he muttered, eyes narrowing at the blue-glowing figure across from him. "Only three minutes remaining…"
Guren stood opposite him, calm but unreadable, the faint light of his formless blue edge humming quietly. His movements were subtle—so subtle that they seemed to merge with the rhythm of the air itself.
Then, without warning, he whispered,
"Formless Edge: Eighty Vertical Cuts."
In an instant, his sword blurred. Eighty streaks of blue light tore through the floor, slicing through air, blood, and debris alike. The attack wasn't loud—it was precise, a surgeon's masterpiece of destruction.
Alane reacted in a heartbeat.
"Crimson Domain: Spear!"
A pillar of red energy materialized before him, a spear born from his own blood. It clashed against Guren's formless strikes with a sound like glass cracking underwater.
The impact burst red mist across the room. Alane gritted his teeth as a searing pain ripped through his arm—the price of his technique.
He hissed, "Damn it… every time I use these moves, my time reduces by one minute."
He looked up at the digital timer projected faintly inside his vision—a reminder of his own condition.
One and a half minutes left.
Guren stopped, lowering his blade slightly, observing. His tone was low but steady.
"You're not blocking my attacks with shields… you're creating new weapons each time. That means your domain can't produce static defenses, can it?"
Alane's eyes flicked upward, narrowing.
Guren continued, his sharp gaze dissecting every motion. "You're not short on rim—you still have plenty of it. That means you're hiding a structural weakness in your ability. Maybe it costs too much to maintain, or maybe…" He tilted his head slightly, "it's draining your life instead of your energy."
A small smirk formed on Alane's lips. "Oh wow," he muttered under his breath, "he figured it out."
He chuckled, his voice low and rough from exhaustion. "You're sharp, Guren. I'll give you that. But if I'd known you'd get blood supply mid-battle, I wouldn't have wasted time on a full domain."
Blood ran from his hand, dripping like molten rubies onto the cracked tiles. The crimson mist around him thickened.
Fine, he thought. No more holding back. I'll end this and retreat.
He raised his hand, blood swirling like a whirlpool around him.
"Crimson Domain: Blood Pool!"
Instantly, the floor beneath them liquified into a crimson sea. The metallic scent exploded across the room. Guren's boots sank into it—the blood was real, dense, and alive, pulsing with energy like it had a heartbeat of its own.
Guren's blue glow dimmed slightly as he tried to stabilize himself.
His footing vanished.
He fell—no, he swam.
What the hell… this blood… it's consuming oxygen.
He tried to slice through the liquid with his blade, but every cut sealed itself instantly, as though the blood refused to be parted.
Can't see… can't breathe…
Then, a whisper echoed within the red haze.
"You're not the only one who can turn the battlefield into a weapon."
Guren felt a presence behind him and turned just in time to parry. Alane's spear shot forward from the crimson fog, grazing his arm. The blood hissed where it touched skin—it burned.
"Damn…" Guren coughed, using rim to harden his lungs. "So that's your plan. You don't fight me—you drown me."
From somewhere in the darkness, Alane's laughter echoed faintly. "Smart boy. But a little too late."
The blood surged upward, spiraling into tendrils that coiled around Guren like serpents. He swung his sword, slicing through three—five—ten of them, but more kept forming. Each movement grew heavier. The density of rim around him thickened until even light couldn't pass through.
Guren steadied his stance. His mind raced.
He's stalling… counting seconds. That timer of his—it's not for show. If I survive past it, he'll lose.
The veins in Guren's temple pulsed as he forced his rim outward, coating his body in blue armor.
"Fine, Alane," he whispered. "Let's play your little timer game."
He raised his sword again.
"Formless Edge—Reflection Wave!"
Blue lines burst outward like sound waves, vibrating through the pool. For the first time, Alane stumbled—the ground beneath his feet trembled as the pool's cohesion faltered.
Guren's blade cut through the blood sea, dividing it briefly before closing in again.
"Clever trick," he muttered, "but it won't hold."
Then suddenly—silence.
The blood pool collapsed inward like a whirlpool draining itself. The sound of rushing liquid filled the room. Alane stood at the center, panting, his arm trembling as he pressed a blood-seal against his chest.
Only thirty seconds left.
He grinned weakly. "Time's up, Guren."
Before Guren could move, the entire pool exploded upward. Blood swallowed everything—the walls, the lights, the air.
The world turned red—then black—
—and then white.
When Guren blinked, the metallic taste was gone. The air was clean again. The floor was smooth, sterile. The room—white walls, clinical lights—was the same one where Kaito had once been kept.
Guren looked around, blade raised, rim pulsing through his veins.
No one was there.
The crimson domain was gone.
No trace of Alane—no sound, no scent, not even a drop of blood.
Guren's hand tightened around his sword.
"Escaped," he muttered. "Used his last move to warp himself out."
He exhaled deeply, steadying his breath. "Fine, Alane. Run. But next time…" His eyes narrowed, blue aura flickering faintly in the sterile light. "Next time, I'll cut through your crimson world before it even forms."
The faint hum of machines echoed in the empty room. Guren slowly turned toward the corridor beyond, scanning for movement.
In the silence, only the faint dripping of blood from his arm could be heard
---
The medical bay smelled of antiseptic and overheated metal. Fluorescent panels hummed with a tired, steady buzz; a bank of monitors painted the room in cold cyan. Alexander sat propped on a narrow treatment table, one hand pressed to the bandage at his thigh, the other curled around the edge of the mattress. The wound throbbed beneath the dressing—sharp, stubborn, a reminder that his body could still betray him.
Across from him, Claire moved with a brisk, efficient grace. Her dark green hair was a tangle of knots and strands, like a storm that had decided to rest on her head. Dark lines rimmed her eyes—shadows that spoke of sleepless nights and too many shifts. She was small in stature, maybe one hundred sixty-two centimeters, and despite the wear on her face there was a beauty to her that wasn't fragile; it was functional, like something forged for endurance.
"Alexander," she said, the tone almost conversational, "you are so reckless. That's why I have to bandage you."
He tried to make a wry face, but it came out frayed. "If I'd gone serious from the beginning—" he started.
"You mean if you'd listened to me when I told you to stabilize first and strangle your ego second?" Claire cut in with a dry smile as she smoothed the final strip of rim-infused bandage along his leg. The dressing clicked into place, the faint glow of rim bleeding through fabric and skin. "Lucky for you, Fern's bandages do half my job. They hold, they heal, and they don't let go until the rim finishes the work."
Alexander shifted, testing the tightness. "Can I move now?"
"Not yet." Claire's fingers were competent and quick. "The seal needs another hour. Sit still."
He made an exaggerated show of patience and tapped his heel once against the frame of the table. "You're too friendly with me, Claire," he said. "I told you to keep your distance."
She raised an eyebrow. "You told me to keep my distance in the same breath you sent half the base into a firefight without telling anyone your plan. Hard to obey orders when you invent new ones every morning."
From the corner of the room, Maria—lean, composed, an aura of cold control—watched without moving. Her expression was unreadable. Kiyara sat on a crate near the doorway, fingers drumming along a knife's spine, blue light still faint on her nails from the lunar trick she'd used earlier. The three of them formed a small semicircle, the kind of team that had learned how to make small conversations into cover for larger worries.
Claire clicked her tongue as she finished the last knot. "There. That should hold. Rim bandage active. You'll be sore, but you won't die on me tonight."
Alexander let out a breath, half-laugh, half-curse. "So you all came when the alarm went off?"
"One of the guards sent a message." Maria's voice was flat, clipped to service. "We were nearby. I heard and I came. Kiyara was already on patrol. You weren't alone tonight; it was more crowded than you thought."
Kiyara shifted, the moonlight on her nails dimming with a faint hiss. "We won't make too much of a show. But we're here."
Alexander's jaw worked. "Good. I'd hoped it was only Mark and me, but the more bodies the better." He tried for humor and failed; the pain edged through. He tilted his head, watching Claire move like she could stitch confidence onto the bleeding.
A sudden vibration hummed through the room—Alexander's comm unit. The screen flashed with an incoming call: Regan No. 1.
Silence pooled immediately; even Maria's posture changed. Claire's hand froze over the drawer with the saline vials.
Alexander's mouth tightened. He thumbed the accept button and the voice filled the room like gravity—low, resonant, and impossible to pin to a single face or presence. The voice spoke without preamble. It was older than the young men and women standing in the bay, and it carried the authority of someone used to forcing storms to obey.
"Alexander," the voice said, deliberately slow. "I have heard reports of infiltration at Fern."
The sound of it made the air press inward. Alexander's fingers dug into the edge of the table. He could feel the pressure of command in every syllable—no image, no face, only the sound itself shaping the space.
"Yes," he answered, the words rasping through tightened throat. His pride resisted the admission. "There were attempts. We contained most of them, but—"
"You were injured," the voice cut in, not a question but an accusation. It held a casual cruelty. "I also learned of recklessness in the field."
Alexander's eyes flashed. Nerves in his leg twitched as if anger would mend what pain could not. He opened his mouth, those thin lines of defiance forming on him like knives. "Listen—if anything happens to the Fern base because of anyone's careless behavior—because of your orders or because of your failure to secure—" He paused, then the words came out raw and hot, "I will make you feel regret for ever being reckless."
Silence erupted for a fraction of a heartbeat: the kind that follows a thrown stone. Claire's hands stilled. Maria's expression didn't change but her hand tightened on the strap of her bag. Kiyara's head inclined fractionally, noticing the shift.
The voice didn't react in any audible way for a long second; its calmness hummed like a cold engine. Then, measured and even, the voice answered.
"Alexander." A pause that felt longer than a minute. "Ensure that threat is not realized. Fern's integrity is not a single man's work. Failures will be accounted for—quietly, efficiently, and without glorified outbursts."
The words had the quality of a judgment delivered and a reminder that judgment's mechanisms were vast.
Alexander's jaw clenched. The threat in his own reply felt like a confession and an open wound both; he had meant the words as leverage, as defiance. The voice on the line treated them like petty sparks—something the forest's fire-control would simply smother if needed. The implication—thin and undeniable—was that there were consequences that made personal threats trivial.
He swallowed. "Understood," he said at last—two syllables folded into the noise of the room. The call disconnected with the same clinical silence as a scalpel being sheathed.
Claire let out a breath she hadn't known she was holding. "He sounds… close," she said, quietly. "Like he hears everything."
Maria's gaze flicked to Alexander, appraising. "You can't afford to provoke him. Not now."
Alexander's mouth was a hard line. He looked at each of them: at Claire with her tired kindness, at Maria with her unblinking pragmatism, at Kiyara with a restless intensity. "I know," he admitted, the pride in his chest folding like knives. "But I will make sure those who tried to infiltrate Fern learn they should never have stepped inside."
Kiyara stood, the light along her nails dim; the blue trace of lunar energy fading. "Then rest," she said plainly. "Heal. Plans aren't won on swagger."
Claire adjusted his bandage once more, making the edge neat. She met his eyes with something like a friend's reproach. "Stop being an idiot," she murmured. "You survived. That's enough for now."
Alexander let out a short, humorless sound and leaned back against the pillow. The monitors ticked on, the rim in his bandage seeping heat. Outside, somewhere beyond the sealed doors, the facility drew a breath—and the weight of a deeper, unseen presence hovered like a storm on the horizon.