A squadron descended deeper underground, the air growing colder with every step. The lights overhead flickered irregularly, some barely holding on while others were dead entirely, leaving stretches of the passage swallowed by darkness.
Boots scraped against concrete as the squadron moved as one, weapons ready, senses sharp. The Director walked near the front, just behind Midas, who led them through the narrow corridors with practiced familiarity.
"This is it," Midas said, his voice echoing faintly. "Back then, this was where I worked on the shield. The terminal's further in. Whatever caused the incident, whether an error or interference, would've started there."
The Director scanned the walls. Exposed wiring, hastily sealed panels, structural supports that looked more functional than reassuring. "We need to be certain.," he said. "Whether it was a flaw in the system… or someone using it."
Matilda followed close behind, eyes moving from ceiling to floor. "I wouldn't be surprised if it was an error," she said. "This place is barely holding itself together."
Midas slowed, then stopped entirely. He turned his head slightly toward her. "Careful." She didn't back down. "I'm serious. Everything here looks rushed. Unorganized. That's how mistakes happen."
"It was rushed," Midas replied, resuming his pace. "Built under pressure. Barely finished before the bandits came rushing towards the village. But rushed doesn't mean broken."
They entered a wider chamber, its walls lined with dead monitors and inactive consoles, dust layered thick over their surfaces. Midas spoke again without looking back. "So I'll ask, why did you come with us?"
Before Matilda could answer, The Director did. "Because if this was a mistake in the code, we need to know. The accuracy increases with more experts present."
Midas stopped.
"There are no mistakes in my creations," he said firmly. "If anything, you should prepare for an encounter."
Matilda scoffed quietly. "That's a strong claim."
Midas turned to face them fully now, eyes sharp, unyielding. "It's not a claim. It's a fact."
The Director met his gaze, calm but unflinching. "Then this descent will prove it."
Their voices echoed off the concrete as they descended further, the argument refusing to die no matter how deep they went.
"You keep saying there are no mistakes," Matilda said, stepping carefully over a cracked section of flooring. "But look at this place. One bad assumption and everyone down here is buried alive."
Midas didn't even slow down. "You're projecting. Structure doesn't fail just because it looks ugly."
"I'm not talking about looks," she shot back. "I'm talking about design philosophy. One entrance. One exit. That's not security, that's a coffin if anything goes wrong."
The Director exhaled sharply. "Both of you. Quiet."
They glanced back at him.
"If this was caused by someone," he continued, irritation creeping into his voice, "the last thing we should be doing is announcing our presence."
Midas waved a dismissive hand. "Not necessary. There's only one way in and one way out. Nobody else could be down here." Matilda's eyes narrowed. "That's exactly my point. You design it like that and then act surprised when it becomes a death sentence. Ever hear of earthquakes? Structural collapse? Panic?"
Midas finally stopped and turned. "You don't need to worry about that."
"Oh? And why's that?"
"Because this area was built with multiple scenarios in mind," he said coolly. "Seismic activity included." Matilda crossed her arms. "Then why does it feel like it's going to cave in if someone breathes wrong?"
Midas scoffed. "Because you're assuming incompetence. Planning for standard failure points, like earthquakes, is basic. Everyone does that. Acting like this place wasn't designed with obvious problems in mind is just stating the obvious."
Matilda's jaw tightened. "So now you're calling me stupid."
"I'm saying," Midas replied evenly, "that you're criticizing the fundamentals when it's the work of an expert."
"And I'm saying that your 'expertise' isn't up to standards."
Their voices rose again, overlapping, sharp and relentless. The Director lagged half a step behind, tuning them out, until he heard something.
A sound.
Soft. Deliberate. Not an echo.
He stopped walking.
Slowly, he turned, raising his flashlight and sweeping it across the corridor behind them. The beam cut through dust and shadow, sliding over walls, corners, the long stretch of descent they'd already passed.
Nothing.
One of the soldiers noticed. "Sir? Something wrong?"
The Director held the light steady for a second longer, his expression unreadable. Then he powered it.
"...No," he said. "Nothing. Keep your senses sharp." He turned back toward the group. "We're moving further in." They pushed through the final door and stepped into a wide control room, its walls lined with stacked monitors and humming terminals.
The glow of the screens painted the space in pale blues and sickly whites. Chairs were pulled out at odd angles. A half-empty cup sat beside one of the consoles, the liquid inside long cold.
Midas stopped short.
"...Someone's been here," he said flatly. He moved to the central terminal, fingers flying across the keys. The screen responded instantly. No password prompt, no authentication delay.
Matilda frowned "It's already online?"
Midas' jaw tightened. "It shouldn't be."
He switched from the familiar interface into the backend, lines of logs scrolling rapidly. His eyes traced timestamps, access routes, command executions. "...Yeah," he muttered. "No doubt about it. This system was accessed manually."
Matilda leaned in, scanning the data herself. "And not just poked at. They knew where to look." She paused, then her brow furrowed. "That's strange."
Midas glanced at her. "What is?"
"The time logs," she said. "If this is accurate, whoever did this was here while we were descending. We should've crossed paths."
Silence settled over the room. The Director straightened. "Unless they took a route we don't know about."
Midas shook his head. "There isn't–"
"Then we check anyway," The Director cut in. "No chances." He turned to the squad. "Spread out. Check corners, vents, secondary passages, anything that looks like it doesn't belong."
The soldiers moved at once, weapons raised, footsteps echoing as they fanned out through the room and its adjoining corridors. The Director lifted his radio. "Anora, do you copy?"
Static answered him. Harsh, broken, and meaningless. He tried again and again, being met with the same result each time.
"...Too deep," he muttered, lowering it.
"Sir," a voice called out from the far side of the room. The Director turned. One of the soldiers was standing near a side alcove, flashlight trained downward.
They'd found someone.
A young civilian lay slumped against the wall, unconscious. Their clothes were torn, most of the outer layers stripped away, skin smeared with dirt and dried blood. No visible weapon. No gear. Just a person who clearly didn't belong in a place like this.
Matilda swallowed. "He should know more about what happened here."
The Director rubbed a hand over his face, already knowing the conclusion before he said it. "Whoever did this… chances are they're long gone." He looked back at the glowing terminals, still running as if nothing had happened.
"And they knew exactly what we were doing."
Later on, they exited the underground. The first thing The Director noticed was the change in the air.
The chaos was gone.
Where screams and confusion once ruled, there was now a heavy, muted calm, one that pressed down on the chest rather than assaulted the ears. The village was still ruined, but it was no longer a battlefield, it was a place of aftermath.
On the outskirts, rescuers worked in silence, dragging what could barely be called bodies. The husks were light, almost brittle, wrapped in cloth or scavenged sheets. Some were carried with care, others with exhaustion.
Graves were dug by hand. Those who were still able to recognize the dead left small markers behind. Charms, scraps of fabric, bits of jewelry, anything that said this mattered to someone.
Closer to the center, life stubbornly persisted.
A makeshift gathering area had been formed from overturned stalls, tarps, and broken walls. People sat close together, sharing warmth more than conversation. Someone had started a fire. Someone else passed around water.
The crew stepped into it quietly.
That was when The Director saw who was at the center.
Pheo.
He stood behind an improvised table, sleeves rolled up, dirt still clinging to his clothes. Large containers sat beside him, with salvaged pots and crates of intact supplies. He moved steadily, almost methodically, handing out food and water, murmuring reassurances where he could.
"Here. Slowly, there's more coming."
"Careful, it's hot."
"Take this to the kids first."
The people around there listened to him. Not because he commanded them to, but because he was there for them, calm and unflinching in the face of the desire they were facing.
Pheo worked with whatever the village hadn't lost. Most of the food he found had been prepared for the festival. Sealed jars of grains, preserved meats, dried vegetables, and crates of flatbread meant to be shared in celebration of the festival.
Some of it was scorched, some of it half-buried under debris, but enough remained. Enough to matter at least. He built a cooking space from scrap wood and bent metal, stones arranged into something resembling a hearth.
Fires were kept low, controlled. Nothing wasted. He turned what should've been excess into sustenance, stretching portions carefully, ladling them out to survivors first, then to operatives who were still on their feet.
No one complained about the taste. They ate it because it was warm. Because it was the only solace they had after the horrors they've experienced today.
From a short distance away, The Director watched as the scene unfolded. He didn't interfere. Just observed. The way Pheo moved without panic, the way people naturally lined up, the way even hardened soldiers softened when handed a bowl.
Anora eventually stepped up beside him.
"So," she said quietly, eyes still on the crowd. "How'd it go down there?"
He exhaled through his nose. "We found out there was a culprit. Whoever did it escaped however. Cleanly. No face, no trail, just absence." She clicked her tongue in irritation. "Figures." Then, after a beat, she straightened slightly. "Still, looks like the worst is over."
The Director nodded. "For now." His gaze drifted back to Pheo. "You raised the kid right."
That earned a smile from her. Small but genuine. "He wouldn't be here if you hadn't let him stay with my corps," she replied. "So that part's on you too."
They stood in silence for a moment longer before Anora shifted, her tone turning professional again. "Jacklyn's still asleep," she reported. "Stable. But… there's something else."
That made him turn to her. "Go on."
"There was another awakening," she said. "It happened while we were outside the shield."
His attention sharpened instantly. "Who?"
Anora shook her head. "Not my story to tell. You're better off asking Ikra." She pointed past the tents, toward the vehicles parked nearby, where temporary shelters had been set up.
"He's over there," she added. "Among the tents."
Trusting Anora's words, The Director didn't question her further. He gave her a short nod and headed in the direction she pointed, weaving past tents and vehicles, already preparing himself for whatever explanation Ikra was going to give.
Anora, meanwhile, let the tension finally slip from her shoulders. She turned back toward the makeshift kitchen and leaned against the counter Pheo had set up.
"So," she said lightly, "think a war hero gets a discount?" Pheo didn't even look up as he skewered a few pieces of food and handed them over. "Absolutely not." Then, after a beat, he added, "that'll cost you."
She raised a brow. "Oh?" Before he could react, she leaned in and planted a quick kiss on his cheek.
"Keep the change."
Pheo froze for half a second, then immediately wiped the spot with the back of his hand, deadpan. "I only take cash."
Anora stared at him, then let out a long sigh. "Wow. Has my age finally caught up to me?"
Pheo shrugged. "Or your tactics are outdated."
She scoffed, amused despite herself, then her eyes drifted past him. Her expression shifted slightly as she spotted Midas in the crowd.
"Huh," she muttered. Then, louder, to Pheo, "Hold that thought. Don't go anywhere." She stepped away, already moving with purpose. "There's someone I want you to meet."
Pheo watched her go, shaking his head faintly before turning back to the line. He picked up another plate, ready to serve the next person without looking before pausing.
The man standing in front of him was tall, composed, and unmistakable. His clothes were dusty, his expression calm in a way that felt practiced.
Narfius.
For a moment, the sounds of the camp seemed to dull. Pheo tightened his grip on the plate, eyes lifting to meet Narfius's gaze as he forced his voice to stay steady. It didn't take long before something snapped inside him.
His body moved before his thoughts could catch up. Feet shifting, back, shoulders lowering, every sense flaring as if he were back in that underground hellscape again. His breath slowed, muscles tightening, ready.
Narfius noticed.
He tilted his head slightly, genuinely puzzled, brows knitting together as he looked the boy over. "Do I… know you?" he asked, almost mildly. "What exactly have I done to deserve that look?"
That did it.
The confusion, the casual tone as if nothing had ever happened sent a surge of heat straight through Pheo's chest. His hands trembled, not with fear, but with rage. Words crowded his throat, tangled and useless. He couldn't get any of them out.
So he acted.
He grabbed the nearest bowl of soup, still steaming, and hurled it with all the force he had. The liquid arched through the air. Narfius stepped aside effortlessly, the bowl smashing against the ground behind him.
He looked back at the mess, then at Pheo, irritation finally creeping into his expression. "What do you think you're doing?" he asked. "Picking a fight? You're just a kid."
Pheo laughed.
It wasn't light or amused, it was sharp. Broken, almost hysterical. "A kid?" he echoed. "That's funny."
He took a step forward, eyes burning as memories surfaced uninvited. The cold floors he slept in, the exhaustion that came from mining for hours, and the constant threat of death.
"You didn't seem to care about that when I was younger," he said, voice steady now, dangerous. "You had no problem beating up a kid almost half your size." Pheo clenched his fists. "I might not be awakened," he continued, teeth bared in a grim smile, "But I'm old enough now."
"Old enough to return the favor."
Around them, the camp noise seemed to fade, people sensing the tension but not yet daring to intervene. Pheo stood his ground, fully aware that he might lose as the memory of Narfius punching his gut played in his mind.
The murmurs grew louder as people realized something was about to happen. Survivors, operatives, even a few soldiers slowly backed away, forming a loose circle around the two of them. Wide enough to feel like an arena, tight enough that there was no clean way out.
Pheo stood at its center, shoulders squared, breathing steady. He looked like someone who had been waiting for years for permission.
Narfius, on the other hand, raised his hands slightly. Not in surrender, but in restraint. His voice stayed level. "Listen," he said, taking a cautious step back, "I don't know what you think I did, but this doesn't need to–"
Pheo didn't let him finish.
He lunged.
There was no warning, just raw intent. Narfius barely managed to twist aside, the strike grazing past his ribs. Sand scattered beneath his feet as he retreated, eyes narrowing, still refusing to strike back.
"Kid, stop," Narfius said sharply, dodging again. "This isn't going to end the way you think it will."
Pheo answered with another attack. Then another. Each strike came faster, angrier, less controlled but more honest. Narfius kept moving, slipping past blows by inches, his expression growing more strained, as if he were desperately trying to keep something buried.
Words failed him as Pheo pressed harder, herding him, forcing his steps narrower and narrower.
Then Pheo saw it.
A fraction of a second where Narfius had nowhere left to go.
He committed fully, pouring everything into a single punch meant to end it.
Narfius' body jerked.
Not away, not back, but wrong.
His limbs snapped into a motion that no human body should have been able to make, joints bending just past what instinct said was possible. It was sudden, violent, like a marionette yanked by unseen strings.
For a moment, it looked less like Narfius was dodging and more like something else had taken control of him.
Pheo's eyes widened, but he didn't stop. He followed through, stepping in for another strike–
And the fist was met with something else.
The sand in front of him surged upward in an instant, forming a wall that rose faster than thought. His fist slammed into it with a deafening clang that rang through the circle, the sound sharp and metallic, echoing across the ruined village.
Pain exploded up his arm.
Pheo staggered back, clutching his hand as the shock numbed his fingers. The wall didn't crumble. It didn't crack.
It resonated.
Only then did he really look at it. The surface wasn't stone or sand, but gold. Solid, flawless, catching the dying light in dull, oppressive reflections. A shout cut through the silence, sharp and commanding.
"Enough!"
The crowd parted as a massive man pushed through, easily twice the size of an average person. He wasn't built like a fighter, but his sheer bulk carried weight, more fat than muscle, yet grounded and immovable, like something that decided where it stood.
People instinctively made room for him. At his side was Anora. She didn't hesitate. The moment she saw Pheo, her expression hardened as she closed the distance in long, angry strides, grabbing his shoulder and pulling his back from the golden wall.
"Pheo," she snapped, voice low but furious, "what do you think you're doing?"
Pheo shook her hand off, chest still heaving. "I'm doing what I should've done a long time ago." He pointed straight at Narfius. "That man, he was there. He took me in the caverns. He helped them bring me and many others down there. When I tried to escape, he beat me until I was knocked out."
The crowd murmured again, unease rippling outward. Narfius blinked, genuinely taken aback. He studied Pheo more closely now, his brow furrowing as if digging through old memories. After a moment, something clicked.
"...Huh," he muttered. "That was you."
Pheo stiffened.
Narfius exhaled slowly, almost embarrassed. "It's been years," he said, rubbing the back of his neck. "If you hadn't said anything, I honestly wouldn't have remembered." He looked back at Anora. "There were a lot of faces back then."
That answer only made Pheo's fists clench tighter.
Narfius straightened, tone calm, almost courteous. "Look, if this is about that, then it's a misunderstanding. I was following orders. Ugly time, messy place." He glanced at Pheo again, eyes sharp but not hostile. "Seems I owe you a proper introduction now, at least."