Chapter Eleven — Her Light
Bang!
Sam slammed on one knee as the wave of mana holding him aloft dispersed, the invisible support vanishing all at once. The currents that had been racing toward him moments earlier scattered chaotically, colliding and unraveling—gone.
Pain shot up his leg.
He sucked in a sharp breath, a groan slipping from his throat as consciousness clawed its way back, dragging him up from whatever unreal state he'd been trapped in.
His head throbbed.
His body felt heavy.
Too heavy.
Sam planted one hand against the cracked and fractured flooring and pushed himself upright, vision swimming as the world slowly came back into focus.
The underground chamber lay in ruins.
Shattered panels of reinforced glass carpeted the ground like fallen crystal. Emergency lights flickered erratically overhead, painting the bartered walls in pulses of red. The air itself shimmered faintly, saturated with the lingering mana that refused to disperse, clinging to the space like an afterimage.
He froze. Residual energy brushed against his skin—and recoiled.
Sam straightened, heart hammering as he realized he was standing at the center of it all.
"What the hell happened here…?" The words left him almost as a whisper.
A stirring rose inside him. Not memories, exactly, but impressions. Vague recollections that seemed to be returning in bits. Layers of sensation pressed behind his ribs, a feeling of something vast unfolding in his chest.
The all-devouring nexus—as he had come to think of it.
A core. A void. A convergence point where everything seemed to flow inward.
The realization had arrived with terrifying clarity back then: anything that touched it would be consumed. Devoured.
Sam swallowed, recalling the moment it began to swell beyond comprehension. Space had warped. Strands of energy had poured in from every direction, drawn toward it like it was the center of a pregnant singularity.
Another few minutes—or even seconds—and something impossible would have been born.
But then came the voice.
Mother.
The word hadn't been spoken aloud. It had echoed directly inside his mind, layered with meaning he still could not grasp. It hadn't felt like a title, nor a random word—it was something deeper than both.
At first, he'd assumed whoever—or whatever—had spoken was leaving as the presence had begun to thin, to drift, fading away.
Now, standing amid the wreckage, a sharper realization settled in: the owner had never been there at all—at least he did not think they were.
And if it hadn't been there, it couldn't be leaving.
No.
The fading hadn't been her going away.
It had been him losing consciousness in her presence—even though it had never once been threatening.
A chill crawled up his spine. He stiffened upon imagining if it meant otherwise.
Suddenly he recalled the progression of events that led to 'it' and gasped.
His head snapped back to the second tank. "Serena!"
Relief surged when he saw her—still floating in the vacuous liquid, the level only slightly lowered. She was alive. Safe.
His knees nearly gave out.
Then a faint mechanical whirring sliced through the silence. Sam lifted his gaze. A scanning beam traced across his body from above.
ATLAS.
He squinted at the suspended unit. "…What are you doing?"
The beam lingered, deliberate and precise.
"I am running a diagnostic for any abnormalities," ATLAS replied. "You absorbed a significant quantity of high-density mana in an extremely short timeframe. Even though you appear physically intact, confirmation is prudent."
Sam glanced around the ruined chamber—the shattered glass, warped flooring, bartered walls still glowing faintly with residual heat—and sighed.
So that's what happened.
"Go ahead," he said finally.
"Understood." The scanning continued, data streaming across auxiliary displays embedded in the walls.
Several moments later, ATLAS's voice returned, carrying something unusual—a faint hesitation. "Diagnostics complete."
"And…" Sam asked sensing the hesitation.
"There is nothing. No detected abnormalities. You are fine." ATLAS replied.
Sam did not notice the subtle inflection—the almost questioning note from a supposedly emotionless construct. He was too absorbed in his thoughts.
"That's good then," he murmured. A pause. "And her? Why isn't she waking up? Or is she supposed to finish absorbing the contents first?"
"I do not have an answer to that," ATLAS replied.
Sam exhaled. "Figures."
The scanning unit rotated slightly, a soft hum accompanying the motion. "Would you like to proceed to examine the remaining items, or wait for Miss Serena to finish?"
Sam's choice was automatic. "We wait."
"Understood," ATLAS said.
Even as he spoke, Sam noticed Serena's containment field held steady, dampening most of the ambient energy surges. That alone explained why she remained unharmed, even though the chamber had been nearly obliterated.
⸻
Far away, in the quiet corridors of the True Blue branch, the faint creak of hinges announced a visitor.
Melvin stepped into the office of Hugo Burns—the respected leader whose reputation alone could make seasoned operatives pause.
The room carried the faint scent of old books and polished wood. Moonlight spilled through tall windows, glinting off smooth surfaces and casting Hugo's sharp features into contrast. He stood with his back to the entrance, hands clasped behind him, posture calm but authoritative.
Melvin's chest tightened.
Being summoned personally by Hugo Burns was not something that happened casually.
A rush of anticipation surged through him. Maybe he'd finally been noticed. Maybe this was the mission that would push him out of the shadows.
Whatever it was, he wasn't about to waste it.
"Branch Leader Hugo," Melvin said, straightening instinctively. His voice was steady, though a thin edge of tension slipped through. "You called for me?"
Hugo turned slowly.
His eyes were hard—but beneath that hardness was something Melvin hadn't expected.
Concern.
"Yes," Hugo said. He paused, choosing his words carefully. "There has been an incident."
Melvin's posture stiffened. "An incident, sir?"
Hugo nodded once.
"My children have encountered unexpected danger."
The words hit harder than Melvin anticipated.
His breath stalled for half a second.
His children?
Melvin had always assumed Hugo Burns' kids would be monsters in their own right—powerful, untouchable. People who would never need rescuing.
Yet here Hugo was, standing in moonlight, asking him for help.
A strange mix of disbelief and pressure settled in Melvin's chest.
"Danger?" Melvin asked quietly. "Sir… how bad?"
Hugo exhaled through his nose. For just a moment, the branch leader façade slipped.
"I do not yet know," Hugo said. "That is why I am sending you."
He reached out, handing Melvin a tablet. A single blinking icon pulsed on a map interface.
"This device will guide you to their location. ATLAS will assist once you arrive."
Melvin stared at the screen.
Then reality fully caught up.
This wasn't a routine assignment.
This was Hugo Burns trusting him with his own children.
The weight of it settled heavily on Melvin's shoulders.
"You may assemble a team," Hugo continued. "Take whatever resources you need from the armory. Your mission is simple."
His gaze locked onto Melvin's.
"Bring them back safely."
Melvin swallowed.
This wasn't about recognition anymore.
This was responsibility.
He straightened fully, jaw tightening. "Understood, sir."
Hugo stepped closer to the desk, resting one hand against its surface. His voice remained firm—but now there was something unmistakably personal beneath it.
"Take care of them," Hugo said quietly. "Bring them back unharmed. That is all I ask."
Melvin felt something shift inside him.
Not excitement.
Resolve.
"Yes, sir," he said.
Hugo nodded once, regaining his usual composure.
"Good. May her light guide us."
Melvin snapped to attention and repeated the Blue code without hesitation.
"May her light guide us."