Though the red sand beneath his feet was the same, Hammurabi Badia could taste the bitterness in the air.
The twilight line stumbled across his shoulder, and the large sapphire embedded in the edge of his shoulder plate refracted the last light of this planet—before a violent storm swept in, shrouding the sky in sand and wind. The detection systems in his power armor continuously warned of high-intensity ionizing radiation unfit for human survival. His brain immediately evaluated the oxygen levels in the atmosphere. Though an Honor Guard's body could resist such radiation, he still sealed off the helmet's filtration system and activated the suit's internal oxygen loop to maintain blood oxygen levels for the battles ahead.
Everywhere he looked, towering stone pillars tilted and sank into the red sand. Ancient murals were now reduced to faint, colored lines. Primitive weapons lay scattered among high-tech ones, incomprehensible twisted totems mixed with brittle bones—silent testaments to the history of this place.
Hammurabi Badia moved his steel boots aside, carefully examining the blurred patterns etched into the stone beneath him. He tried to use his knowledge to determine whether this artistic style could correspond to the progression of human history on Earth. He didn't know this planet's culture, or why human civilization had once existed here, nor why it had been destroyed. During breaks in battle, he read from the power armor's databanks to fill his mind with wisdom and lessons. Because his mission was not just combat. He understood the trials weren't over yet. There was a reason he had been deployed here.
The red sand in the Undying City's arena, rich in iron oxide, came from this very planet—a world where all human creations had utterly rusted into dust. Every action of the Monarch had its purpose. Hammurabi hadn't even noticed the moment he was deployed here. Humbly, he absorbed every piece of knowledge he was permitted to learn. According to the archives, this planet was once home to numerous tribes of faith-based, extra-dimensional beings. Many of those dangerous factions had since been eliminated by the Commander and the Monarch, transforming the place into an Honor Guard training ground. What remained was the task of Hammurabi and Suppiluliumas.
"Suppiluliumas. Suppiluliumas, do you copy?" he tried to contact his comrade through the comm channel, but electromagnetic interference surged like a tide. A mysterious storm of static plagued communication. Suppiluliumas was Number Three's new name. Hammurabi instinctively believed they should be familiar, but chemical conditioning and psychic reprogramming had completely erased their pasts. He didn't mind. He only wished to focus on the mission—nothing else. His final attempt at communication failed. The bone-conductive earpiece implanted beneath his skin offered only static, and electromagnetic radiation crackled against his armor.
Hammurabi shut off comms, repositioned the longsword on his magnetic belt to his back, and tightened his deep red cloak to keep sand out. He planted his halberd into the sand for support and began marching toward the coordinates marked on his map. Fast-moving grit slammed against his ornate golden armor with a sound like driving rain. Hammurabi walked in silence, ever alert for cultists and beasts that might emerge. He believed he would find Suppiluliumas at the rendezvous point. This was merely a training planet—a dead world. Any qualified Honor Guard could complete this trial.
He stepped onto his own path.
Only by walking out of this place could he truly take the first step in bearing the responsibility of guarding the Monarch.
Solomon calculated the estimated time of return for Hammurabi and Suppiluliumas, then updated their work schedules on the Honor Guard roster. Back when he and Constantine had participated in the alien trials, they had returned to Earth within the expected window—not by relying on time acceleration enchantments inside the Honor Guard's incubation chambers, but through relativity. That planet held a fixed portal maintained by Kamar-Taj, and had long been on the watchlist. But fully cleansing its corruption would require enormous manpower, and Kamar-Taj could not finish the job alone. Now that Solomon had taken over most of Kamar-Taj's assets, the planet was listed as one of its holdings. He believed once these two Honor Guards returned, they would be ready to fulfill their mission. There was no more time to spend on their training. Constantine was a special case—the rest would train through real combat.
He felt a gentle tug on his sleeve.
Solomon looked down and saw the girl standing beside his chair, clutching his suit jacket tightly.
It had been over an hour since Constantine left, and the study door had opened again—anyone residing here could now enter freely. Solomon saw that the girl had changed clothes. The white gown once worn by the Sisterhood had been replaced with a modern black dress, and her tightly tied hair had been let down into a natural, loose style. The Cheshire Cat followed behind her, its fluffy gray tail swaying slowly. Its fur was a mess, as if someone had thoroughly ruffled it. The girl continued tugging on Solomon's jacket. After a long moment, she finally looked up and saw that he'd noticed her—instantly breaking into a silly, cheerful grin, murmuring unintelligible words as she tried with all her might to express herself. But only once the Arcanist touched her mind could she fully communicate her thoughts.
After hearing those childish, pure ideas, Solomon gently patted her head, ignoring the "meow meow" complaints from the Cheshire Cat about how this human child was rude and showed no respect for a cat of its esteemed rank.
They each spoke their own language, but no one interrupted the other.
"All right. When Mom calls us for dinner, we must arrive at the dining table on time."
Solomon lifted her with one arm and held her in his embrace, while holding a book in the other hand. He followed the self-appointed guide—the Cheshire Cat—out of the study. "Yi!" the girl cried out joyfully again, then sprawled across the Arcanist's shoulder, babbling in a tongue no one could understand. The Cheshire Cat grumbled as it walked, demanding a huge slab of tuna belly as compensation later. Otherwise, it swore it would never forgive the child's impudence—and it certainly would not allow her to pet it again.
Solomon pretended not to hear.
Anyone who so much as scratched its head would get a loud purr within seconds, followed by the cat flopping onto the floor, limbs splayed. Its threats had never worked. Even if Dana didn't feed it tuna belly, it still raided the fridge regularly for tasty treats. Every day, Dana found bite marks on fish in the kitchen, and the Cheshire Cat's belly was always bulging. Sometimes, it was even caught red-pawed, still chewing—leading to Dana chasing the fish thief in a rage on a daily basis.
"Which mom are you talking about? The one with black hair or the one with white hair?" Solomon asked.
The girl waved her hands in every direction, trying to explain. Even she didn't understand it clearly—but the Arcanist could see the images in her mind. In a child's eyes, everything looks different than to adults. So the pictures Solomon saw were filtered through her childish imagination—for example, the Cheshire Cat was a warm, fuzzy gray ball that made all kinds of sounds when touched. Bayonetta was a talking black tower; Jeanne, a white tower. As for Solomon himself, he was a glowing orb of light. Once you grew accustomed to this filter, it became easy to decipher what she meant.
"Oh? And what else did she say?"
The girl nodded solemnly.
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