Days turned into weeks.
Weeks turned into months.
Life didn't pause for breakthroughs.
Training continued.
Bruises healed.
Lessons piled up.
Gunpowder, sweat, blood, and exhaustion became routine.
And before Niero realized it—
December arrived like a silent blade.
Then colder.
Then darker.
Then heavier.
And suddenly—
It was December 24th.
Christmas Eve.
Even in the post–Black December world, Christmas still lived on.
Maybe not in the way it once did.
But it survived.
Like everything humanity refused to let the Fog steal.
Maison Bella Café transformed.
The warm European décor was now layered with holiday decorations—garlands, paper snowflakes, cheap tinsel, little glowing fairy lights, and a crooked Santa sticker stuck to the front glass door.
A small Christmas tree stood near the corner, decorated with mismatched ornaments and tiny candy canes.
Someone—probably Daisy—had insisted on hanging a red stocking with Pumpkin's name on it.
Pumpkin, of course, had already tried to chew it.
Outside, Mega-Ark City 01 was colder than usual.
Artificial snow drifted down through the sector's climate system, settling on rooftops and sidewalks like a gentle illusion of the Old World.
And inside the café…
the air smelled like sugar, cinnamon, and melted butter.
The menu board had been updated with festive specials:
Christmas-themed cakes.
Holiday pastries.
Warm treats meant to fight the cold.
And drinks that were half comfort… half indulgence.
Hot Buttered Rum.
Irish Coffee.
Alcoholic Eggnog.
Steaming mugs passed between tired hands and laughing mouths, filling the café with warmth that felt almost sacred.
Families came in bundled up.
Couples held hands.
Children pointed excitedly at the tree.
Some customers exchanged gifts over the tables.
Others simply sat quietly, sipping hot drinks and pretending the world outside wasn't still full of monsters.
It was a season of soft lies.
A season of comfort.
A season where people tried to believe, just for a night, that the Fog could not reach them.
And behind the counter, wearing an apron and pretending he was just a normal teenage boy…
Niero worked.
Serving drinks.
Serving pastries.
Watching the snow through the café window.
Watching the customers laugh.
Watching Daisy decorate gingerbread cookies like it was the most important mission in the universe.
Niero moved between tables with practiced ease, collecting empty mugs and dessert plates while the café buzzed with Christmas cheer.
Laughter.
Warm drinks.
Holiday music.
The smell of cinnamon, chocolate, and buttercream hanging thick in the air.
And of course…
the customers.
Especially the lonely women.
The kind that had too much eggnog in their bloodstream and too little shame left in their mouths.
One of them leaned forward with a grin, her cheeks flushed pink.
"So, sweetheart… got any Christmas specials for me?"
Niero forced a polite smile, scraping a spoon off her plate.
"Yes, ma'am. We have hot cocoa."
Another one giggled, fingers twirling her hair.
"Hot cocoa? Oh? I was hoping for something… hotter."
Niero's smile twitched.
His eye flickered toward the counter, silently praying his mother wouldn't hear.
"Then you should order the Irish coffee," he replied flatly. "It comes with whiskey."
The women laughed like it was the funniest thing they'd ever heard.
Niero walked away before his mouth betrayed him and got him killed.
But as he passed the counter, he noticed something strange.
Aunt Alura was sitting off to the side, arms folded, staring at the festive chaos like it personally offended her.
She wasn't smiling.
She wasn't joking.
She wasn't even flirting with customers like she normally did.
She looked… irritated.
No.
Not irritated.
Almost bitter.
Niero slowed his steps, watching her for a moment.
Then it clicked.
Oh.
Of course.
It wasn't that Alura hated Christmas Eve.
She wasn't a Scrooge.
She wasn't some cold-hearted cynic.
It was something simpler.
Something more personal.
It was her birthday.
December 24th.
Christmas Eve.
The day where everything in the world became red-and-green decorations, Santa Claus, jingling bells, and holiday cakes.
Meaning her birthday—
her one day—
was always swallowed whole by Christmas.
No matter how old she got, it was never truly hers.
It was always:
Merry Christmas.
Never:
Happy Birthday.
Niero exhaled quietly, feeling a sting of sympathy.
He could imagine how annoying it would be.
If his birthday fell on Christmas…
Or worse—
Radiant Day.
A holiday so massive it could crush even a person's identity under the weight of celebration.
He glanced at Alura again.
She still looked like she wanted to punch a Santa decoration.
Niero didn't say anything yet.
But he filed it away in his mind.
Because for once…
He understood exactly why his aunt didn't look happy.
As Niero leaned against the counter, trying to think of a way to cheer Alura up, his eyes casually drifted toward the café's front window.
And that was when he saw it.
A familiar gruff face.
Father Creed.
Half-hidden behind the corner of the glass pane, peeking in like a suspicious old man spying on a drug deal.
Niero's eyes widened.
Oh. It's happening.
He immediately turned back to Alura, acting casual.
"Auntie," he said quickly, "go help Mom in the kitchen."
Alura didn't even look at him.
She took another sip of beer.
"I'm on break."
Niero's eyebrow twitched.
"You've been on break for two hours."
Alura lifted her bottle slightly, unfazed.
"And I plan to continue."
Niero leaned closer, lowering his voice.
"I also need an hour break. Go. Help. Mom."
Alura narrowed her eyes at him, clearly offended by the audacity.
But after a long pause, she clicked her tongue.
"Tch… fine."
She stretched lazily like a cat, cracking her neck.
"Ungrateful brat…"
Then she stood up and wandered toward the kitchen, beer still in hand.
As soon as she disappeared behind the kitchen door—
Niero immediately raised his hand and made a sharp, urgent gesture at the window.
NOW.
Father Creed's eyes widened in understanding.
The old priest slipped inside the café with surprising speed for a man in his fifties.
Right behind him came Madam Xixi—carrying a suspiciously large bag—and several other women Niero didn't recognize at first…
Until he saw their faces.
Their expressions.
Their smug, excited grins.
Alura's gambling buddies.
A group of middle-aged aunties who looked like they could either hug you to death or ruin your entire life with gossip.
They marched in like a coordinated strike team.
Customers in the café paused mid-sip, staring in confusion.
"What's going on…?"
"Is this some kind of event?"
"Eh? Free cake ah?"
Father Creed didn't waste time.
He strode straight to the counter and placed a cake box down with a heavy thump.
Then, without a word, he opened his coat slightly—
and pulled out a rolled banner like it was contraband.
Madam Xixi giggled like a schoolgirl.
Meanwhile, Alura's gambling buddies moved fast.
Too fast.
One of them climbed onto a chair.
Another taped the banner onto the wall.
Another held a handful of poppers like grenades.
Niero blinked.
These aunties are terrifying.
At the same time, Sophie and Daisy exchanged a glance.
They had the same look in their eyes.
It's time.
Daisy quickly rushed to the kitchen entrance like a lookout.
Sophie began preparing the lights, quietly dimming the main café lamps.
Niero held his breath.
His heart beat faster.
As soon as Alura stepped out of the kitchen, she carried a tray stacked with a liquor coffee beverage and a slice of pie.
Her expression was already sour.
"Seriously…?" she muttered, glaring at the receipt. "Who the hell names themselves 'Im Ma Gay' and orders this kind of nonsense?"
She marched forward, ready to yell.
"Oi! Who ordered—"
But the moment she lifted her head—
POP! POP! POP!
Poppers exploded across the café, showering the air with colorful paper strips.
A banner unfurled above her like a trap springing shut.
HAPPY BIRTHDAY, ALURA RIPLEY!
Alura froze mid-step.
Her eyes widened as if her brain needed a full second to process what she was seeing.
Standing in front of her was a whole group—her gambling buddies, Madam Xixi, Father Creed, and the Ripley siblings.
Niero, Sophie, and Daisy grinned like proud conspirators.
"Surprise!!" everyone shouted in unison.
Father Creed stepped forward with a calm, almost smug expression, holding a beautifully decorated chocolate cake topped with cherries, its surface gleaming under the café lights.
Multiple candles flickered warmly, casting dancing reflections in Alura's stunned eyes.
For a moment, Alura didn't say anything.
Her mouth opened slightly…
Then closed again.
She looked up at the banner.
Then at the cake.
Then around the room.
And what hit her the hardest wasn't the celebration itself—
It was the detail.
The banner wasn't red-and-green.
No Santa.
No reindeer.
No snowflakes.
No cheap "Merry Christmas" nonsense slapped onto it.
Even the cake wasn't shaped like a Christmas tree or covered in festive frosting.
It was just…
A birthday cake.
A birthday celebration.
Not Christmas.
Not a holiday gimmick.
But hers.
Alura's fingers trembled slightly around the tray.
Her tough, sarcastic expression wavered.
And for the first time that whole day…
Her eyes turned glassy.
"…You guys…" she whispered, voice suddenly hoarse.
She tried to scoff.
Tried to laugh it off.
But the emotion hit too fast, too hard.
Her lips quivered as she muttered under her breath,
"…You idiots…"
And yet, despite the insult—
Her smile slowly cracked through.
A real one.
Mom emerged from the back kitchen with her apron still on, hands slightly dusted with flour.
The moment she saw Alura standing there—frozen, surrounded by poppers and people—Emmy didn't hesitate.
She walked straight up and wrapped an arm around Alura's shoulder in a tight side-hug, squeezing her like she was afraid her sister might vanish.
"Happy birthday, sister," Mom said softly.
Alura's eyes twitched, her face caught between emotional and ready to punch someone for making her emotional.
"…Tch," she muttered, looking away.
But she didn't pull away from the hug.
Then Emmy raised her voice, addressing the café like she was announcing a festival.
"Alright, everyone!" she called out. "Since it's a special day, all customers get twenty percent discount on everything in the menu!"
The café erupted.
Cheers, claps, whistles—some customers even slammed their tables in excitement.
"Especially pies and liquor beverages!" Emmy added with a grin.
That only made the crowd louder.
Alura's head snapped toward her.
"Oi—are you insane?!" she hissed. "We're gonna lose money!"
But Emmy only smiled wider, her eyes shining with that familiar mix of warmth and stubbornness.
"It's fine," she said. "Consider it a tactic. Christmas energy."
She leaned closer, whispering in Alura's ear.
"And it gives these shameless customers a reason to stay and celebrate you."
Alura froze again.
Her expression softened, and her voice lowered into something unusually quiet.
"…You didn't have to do all that."
But she couldn't hide it.
She was happy.
Genuinely happy.
At that moment, Father Creed stepped forward, bringing the cake closer with both hands like it was an offering.
Alura's eyes widened.
"…Wait."
She stared at the cake's dark chocolate layers, the whipped cream, the cherries.
"…That's a Black Forest cake."
Niero grinned proudly, rubbing the back of his head.
"Yep."
Father Creed nodded, his gruff voice strangely proud.
"We prepared it days in advance."
Niero pointed at the cake with a finger like he was presenting a trophy.
"And we didn't cheap out either. We used real Kirschwasser."
Alura blinked.
"Kirs—"
Her eyes widened even more.
"…That expensive cherry liquor?"
Father Creed grunted.
"It's your birthday. Anything less would've been insulting."
Niero added casually, "Also… we messed up like three batches before we got it right."
Father Creed clicked his tongue.
"Four."
"Three," Niero insisted.
"Four."
Alura stared at them, speechless.
She could've easily gotten some random Christmas cake off a shelf.
Something quick.
Something lazy.
Something convenient.
But instead…
They went out of their way.
They spent money.
They spent time.
They failed, tried again, and still kept going.
All for her.
Alura's lips parted slightly.
Her eyes grew wet again.
"…You people are unbelievable," she muttered, voice trembling.
Then she wiped her face quickly with the back of her hand, as if wiping away weakness.
"Damn it…"
And despite herself—
She smiled.
Alura stared at the cake like it was some kind of sacred artifact.
Then she squinted at Father Creed and Niero.
"…Why the hell is it specifically a Black Forest cake?"
Niero shrugged with a grin.
"Because we know you like booze."
Father Creed nodded bluntly.
"And boozy cake felt appropriate."
For a moment, Alura's expression went completely flat.
"…So you're treating me like a drunkard."
Niero immediately lifted the cake box slightly.
"Well, if you don't want it, I can just serve it to the customers—"
"OI!"
Alura lunged forward and slapped his hands down before he could move it an inch.
Her glare could've killed a goblin.
"That cake doesn't move."
Niero laughed. "So you do want it."
Alura clicked her tongue, folding her arms and looking away, cheeks faintly red.
"It's not like I'm complaining."
She stared at the cherries again, voice quieter.
"…I never got to eat one before."
Then she smirked faintly.
"I'm gonna savor every damn bite."
That was enough.
The whole group started chanting immediately.
"Wish! Wish! Wish!"
"Blow the candles!"
"Come on, birthday girl!"
Alura rolled her eyes like she was annoyed, but she couldn't hide the smile tugging at her lips.
"…Fine, fine."
She leaned in.
Closed her eyes.
For a rare moment, Alura Ripley looked peaceful.
Not loud.
Not reckless.
Not joking.
Just… quietly human.
She took a breath, made her wish—
Then blew.
The candles went out in one strong breath.
The café erupted.
Cheers, clapping, whistling, someone even yelled, "WOOOO!"
Sophie immediately turned on party music from her phone, loud enough to fill the café with a bouncing beat.
Daisy ran out with a huge tray, almost tripping in excitement.
"EGGNOGS!" she announced proudly, holding it up like a victory offering.
She started handing them out not only to the birthday group, but even to the curious customers who had decided to stick around.
Even strangers were smiling now.
The café wasn't just a café anymore.
For one night—
Maison Bella became a little pocket of warmth in a cold world.
And Alura Ripley, the "cool drunk aunt" who always got overshadowed by Christmas…
Finally had a birthday that was hers.
-
As the night grew later, the party slowly spilled out of the café like warmth leaking into the cold.
Maison Bella's lights dimmed early for once, the "Closed" sign flipped over—but the celebration didn't end.
Outside, Sector 13 was glowing.
Streetlights shimmered through heavy snowfall, and the distant skyline of Mega-Ark City 01 glittered like a sea of stars trapped behind glass and steel. Snowflakes drifted down in thick sheets, catching the light like tiny falling embers.
Mom and Niero dragged a small foldable table out to the front, setting it up under the café awning.
A simple handwritten sign sat on top:
HOT CHOCOLATE
+ Peppermint
+ Marshmallows
Steam rose from the cups in comforting clouds.
Mom poured the hot chocolate with the same gentle care she used when making coffee, her cheeks flushed pink from the cold. Niero stood beside her like a dutiful assistant, passing cups and taking payment, occasionally sneaking a sip from one when Mom wasn't looking.
"Oi," Mom warned, narrowing her eyes.
Niero swallowed fast.
"…Quality control."
Mom sighed like she regretted having a son.
Meanwhile, Sophie and Daisy were already out in the snow, laughing like maniacs.
They weren't just making snowballs—they were launching them like artillery.
Kids from nearby shops and apartments joined in, and within minutes it turned into an all-out snow war. Teenagers got dragged into it. Adults tried to act mature.
Failed.
Even Aunt Alura was in it, sleeves rolled up, hair tied back, laughing like she was back in her soldier days.
She nailed some poor guy square in the face with a snowball so perfect it should've been illegal.
"HEADSHOT!" she yelled.
Father Creed, somehow, ended up getting dragged into the chaos too.
At first he just stood there, arms crossed, looking like a disappointed war veteran watching children commit crimes.
Then a snowball hit his shoulder.
He stared at it.
Slowly looked up.
And for the first time in Niero's life…
Father Creed smirked.
He picked up a snowball with terrifying calm.
And launched it with the accuracy of a man who had definitely thrown grenades before.
It smacked Alura right in the forehead.
Alura froze.
Her eyes widened.
"…You son of a—"
The war escalated instantly.
Sophie and Daisy built a snowman with the other kids, but it quickly became less of a snowman and more of a snow golem—big, lopsided, and vaguely threatening, with pebble eyes and a crooked carrot nose.
Someone gave it a scarf.
Someone else gave it a tiny café apron.
Niero watched the whole scene from behind the hot chocolate table, the warmth of the cups in his hands contrasting with the icy air.
For a moment…
There were no monsters.
No fog.
No ranks.
No training.
No blood.
Just laughter, snow, and twinkling city lights.
Mom glanced at him while stirring a pot of hot chocolate.
Her smile was small.
But real.
"See?" she said softly. "This is what matters too."
Niero didn't answer right away.
He just looked out at Sophie and Daisy laughing, at Alura tackling someone into a snow pile, at Father Creed pretending he wasn't enjoying this.
Then he quietly nodded.
"…Yeah."
And for once, he meant it.
Niero stood behind the small hot chocolate table, hands tucked into his jacket pockets, shoulders relaxed as he watched the chaos unfold.
Sophie and Daisy were laughing so hard they could barely breathe, tossing snowballs at kids twice their size. Aunt Alura was an absolute menace, pelting strangers with the confidence of a woman who clearly had military-grade aim. Even Father Creed—stern, gruff Father Creed—had been dragged into the madness, throwing snow like it was holy punishment.
For once…
Everything felt warm.
Even under the snow.
Niero's lips curled into a soft smile, the kind that didn't need to be forced. The kind that came naturally, without effort.
This was good.
This was home.
But then…
Something inside him tightened.
A small pressure in his chest.
Not pain.
Not physical.
Just… a weight.
His eyes remained on the scene, but his thoughts drifted elsewhere, slipping behind the laughter like a shadow behind candlelight.
The breakthrough.
The failed synchronization.
The blood he coughed up.
The way his core almost aligned, almost clicked into place… and then violently rejected him like his own soul was refusing to obey.
His smile slowly faded.
The laughter around him became muffled, like the world was being wrapped in cotton. The snow kept falling, but it felt distant. The lights of the city blurred faintly.
He could still see his family moving, still see their joy…
…but he couldn't fully feel it anymore.
Not because he didn't love them.
But because that doubt was crawling into his mind again.
What if I can't break through?
What if this is my limit?
What if the wall outside the city isn't the real wall… but the one inside me?
His fingers unconsciously curled into a fist inside his pocket.
The cold air bit at his face, but it wasn't the cold that made his skin prickle.
It was the fear he didn't want to admit.
The fear that no matter how much he trained, no matter how much pain he endured…
…there was something inside him that wouldn't move forward.
And for the first time in months—
Niero Ripley, the boy who could stand up after being crushed into a crater…
felt the smallest tremble of uncertainty.
His eyes narrowed slightly, staring at the falling snow like it might answer him.
But the snow didn't answer.
It only kept falling.
Silent.
Endless.
And the world, for a moment, became just as silent.
Niero blinked once.
Twice.
The snow, the laughter, the distant glow of Mega-Ark City 01—all of it snapped back into focus like a cable being yanked tight.
"Ah—sorry," he muttered, quickly sliding a cup of hot chocolate across the counter.
The customer accepted it with a cheerful nod and tapped payment on their SmartCom. A soft digital chime confirmed the transaction.
"Thanks!" they said, already walking off into the snow with peppermint steam trailing behind them.
Niero exhaled, forcing his shoulders to loosen.
Then he turned back to the table.
Mom was watching him.
Not in a busy, café-owner way.
In a mother way.
The kind of look that didn't miss gaps in sentences or hesitation in breathing.
"What's wrong?" she asked gently.
Niero opened his mouth immediately.
"Nothing."
Too fast.
Too clean.
Mom didn't even react. She just kept stirring the hot chocolate pot, calm as ever.
"I don't believe you," she said simply.
Niero gave a small, awkward laugh. "It's really nothing, I just zoned out."
Mom tilted her head slightly.
That was worse.
Because now the concern had shifted from casual to certain.
"Niero," she said again, softer this time, "you can tell me."
A pause.
Then, carefully:
"Maybe I can help."
That landed heavier than expected.
Niero's fingers tightened around the edge of the counter.
He hesitated.
Not because he didn't trust her.
But because what he was about to ask didn't have a safe shape. It wasn't something you could explain with normal words. Not without exposing things that weren't supposed to exist in this world at all.
The Stargod System stayed silent in the back of his mind.
Vuldyr didn't speak.
And for once, that silence felt like permission—and warning at the same time.
Niero exhaled slowly.
"…It's not that I'm hurt," he said carefully.
Mom's eyes narrowed slightly.
"It's… more like—"
He paused again.
Searching.
Then he shifted the question sideways, hiding the blade inside the sentence.
"Mom… do you think people have limits?"
Mom blinked.
That wasn't what she expected.
She set the ladle down slowly.
"…Limits?" she repeated.
Niero nodded.
"Like… no matter how much they train, or grow, or push themselves…"
His gaze drifted briefly toward the snow outside.
"…there's a point they just can't go past."
Mom didn't answer immediately.
For a rare moment, the café noise faded into background noise—Sophie laughing, Daisy yelling at someone about snowball rules, Alura's voice somewhere outside calling someone a "cheater" at full volume.
Mom leaned slightly on the counter.
Her expression softened, but became more serious.
"That's a complicated question," she said.
Then she added, after a beat:
"Because the answer depends on what you mean by 'limit.'"
Niero stayed quiet.
Mom continued.
"There are physical limits," she said. "Yes. Everyone has them. Strength, stamina, pain tolerance. Even regeneration—everything has a cost."
Her eyes sharpened slightly.
"But most people think that's the only kind."
She looked directly at him now.
"And they're wrong."
A pause.
Then softer:
"There are also mental limits."
Niero's fingers loosened slightly.
"And emotional ones," Mom added. "Those are usually the real walls."
She folded her arms.
"Fear. Doubt. Trauma. Guilt. Things that don't show up on a training chart, but decide whether someone moves forward or freezes."
Niero's expression didn't change, but something inside him tightened again—recognition without confirmation.
Mom watched him closely now.
Not pushing.
Just observing.
"…Why are you asking?" she finally said.
A beat of silence stretched between them.
Snow outside continued to fall.
Warm café lights continued to glow.
And Niero stood there, caught between two worlds—
one full of celebration…
and one full of something he still couldn't name.
Mom watched him for a moment longer, then let out a small breath—like she'd decided the conversation needed a final seal rather than more explanation.
"Fear not the man who has practiced ten thousand kicks once," she said, voice steady, "but fear the man who has practiced one kick ten thousand times."
Niero blinked.
Mom added, matter-of-fact:
"Willpower and faith in yourself. That's what carries you past limits."
He stared at her for a second, then let out a short laugh.
"…That sounds like something one of your mentors would say."
Mom raised an eyebrow.
"It's Bruce Lee."
That made Niero pause.
Then he laughed properly, rubbing the back of his head.
"Ah—yeah. I should've known that. I've seen his movies."
Mom sighed like she was personally disappointed in his media literacy.
"Of course you have."
Despite that, she stepped closer and pulled him into a hug.
It wasn't dramatic.
It wasn't loud.
Just firm, warm, familiar.
"Listen," she said quietly against his shoulder, "I still don't like the idea of you becoming a Marauder."
Niero went still.
"But," she continued, softer now, "I have faith in you."
A pause.
Then the part that landed the deepest:
"I'm proud of you. No matter what you become."
Niero didn't answer right away.
His throat tightened slightly.
And then, very quietly, he let out a shaky breath.
"…Tch."
A tear slipped out before he could stop it.
He quickly wiped it away with the back of his hand, embarrassed.
"Dry eyes…" he muttered. "This is stupid."
Mom pulled back just enough to look at him, then laughed under her breath.
"Yeah, yeah."
She turned, grabbed a fresh cup of hot chocolate, and slid it toward him.
"Drink."
Niero accepted it without argument, wrapping his hands around the warmth.
Outside, the café area was getting livelier again.
Kids shouting through snowball fights.
Alura's voice somewhere in the distance yelling at someone for cheating.
Father Creed calmly declaring "that was a tactical snow ambush."
Sophie and Daisy laughing like the world had no weight in it at all.
Christmas music played faintly over the public speakers, mixing with laughter and the soft crunch of snow underfoot.
And for a moment—
everything felt light.
Not because the world had changed.
But because, just for tonight, it didn't feel like it was pressing down on him.
Niero took a sip of hot chocolate.
Warm.
Sweet.
Real.
And he let himself stay in that feeling a little longer.
-
Christmas morning came with no warning—just Daisy's voice cutting through the house like a celebration alarm.
"WAKE UP WAKE UP WAKE UP!!"
Niero groaned from his bed, turning away from the light.
"…It's illegal to be this loud," he muttered.
Beside him, Alura rolled over with a tired grunt.
"Kick the child," she mumbled.
Daisy burst into the room anyway, fully energized like she hadn't just invented morning violence.
"IT'S CHRISTMAS!!"
That was it.
No negotiation.
No mercy.
Within minutes, Niero and Alura were dragged into consciousness by sheer force of cheer.
Groggy, disoriented, and mildly defeated, they followed Daisy into the living room.
And stopped.
The small plastic Christmas tree stood proudly in the corner—slightly crooked, heavily decorated, and absolutely overflowing with mismatched ornaments that somehow worked together.
Under it:
Presents.
Stacks of them.
Wrapped in different papers, ribbons, and clearly different levels of enthusiasm.
Daisy gasped.
"…Santa came."
Her eyes shined with absolute belief.
"I knew I was good this year!"
Niero glanced at Mom and Alura.
Mom gave him a subtle nod.
Alura avoided eye contact suspiciously.
Sophie was already smiling like she was hiding a crime.
The truth was obvious—
Santa wasn't real.
But the magic was.
And they had all quietly kept it alive for Daisy anyway.
Especially when one of the presents—carefully wrapped and clearly expensive—turned out to be the Gravitas Sororitae doll she had been dreaming about.
Daisy practically vibrated with joy when she opened it.
"IT'S HER!!"
She hugged the doll like it was a national treasure.
Then came the exchange.
One by one.
Mom handed Sophie a stylish, high-end branded t-shirt—currently trending in the city's fashion districts.
Sophie immediately lit up.
"THIS IS ACTUALLY INSANE—THANK YOU!!"
Sophie then handed Alura a large box.
Alura opened it casually—
paused—
then slowly pulled out exclusive liquor chocolates.
Her expression froze.
"…You people…"
Her voice cracked slightly.
"You didn't have to—"
She turned her head away fast, rubbing her eye.
"…Damn it."
Niero pretended not to notice.
Alura had definitely just lost to chocolate.
Then Alura stood up and shoved a box into Niero's hands.
"Here."
Niero blinked.
He opened it.
Inside: branded sneakers.
Sleek. Adaptive. Auto-fitting and auto-drying.
He stared.
"…You got me this?"
Alura shrugged.
"Tch. Had to gamble like my life depended on it. Also begged fortune itself. Don't get used to it."
Her ego visibly tried to recover mid-sentence.
But Niero didn't respond immediately.
"…Thanks," he said quietly.
And he meant it.
Then came the final moment.
Daisy and Sophie turned toward him with identical expressions.
Expectant.
Dangerous.
"Brother," Sophie said slowly.
"Gift," Daisy added.
Niero froze.
"…Ah."
He slowly reached into his pocket.
And pulled out a small bundle.
Five folded slips.
Neatly labeled.
BROTHER COUPON
Sophie tilted her head.
Daisy narrowed her eyes.
Niero coughed.
"It's… uh. I didn't know what you wanted, so I made these."
He held them up.
"Each one means I'll do whatever you ask. Within reason. Probably."
A beat of silence.
Then both sisters grabbed them instantly.
With identical, devious smiles.
Niero immediately regretted everything.
"…I have made a mistake," he muttered.
Mom looked at him.
Alura looked at him.
Both silently held out their hands.
Niero blinked.
"…No. Absolutely not. You two already get free labor at the café."
They didn't move.
Just stared.
Waiting.
Niero sighed so deeply it felt ancestral.
"…Fine."
He handed over two more coupons.
Mom smiled warmly.
Alura smirked like she had just won something.
Sophie whispered to Daisy:
"We can combine ours later."
Daisy whispered back:
"Unlimited brother."
Niero heard that.
And immediately regretted Christmas.
But then—
Sophie laughed.
Daisy giggled.
Alura chuckled under her breath.
Mom smiled softly.
And for a moment—
the chaos, the teasing, the noise, the warmth…
all blended into something simple.
A family.
A messy, loud, imperfect family.
And Christmas breakfast was just beginning.
-
=====
-
Days turned into weeks.
Weeks turned into months.
The transition from 2087 to 2088 didn't feel like an ending in Mega-Ark City 01.
It felt like a controlled explosion of noise, light, and stubborn hope.
Fireworks cracked across the sky above Sector 13, scattering neon color through the snowfall and smog-filtered dome lights. Even through the Ark City's protective layers, the city still managed to feel alive—like it refused to acknowledge the weight of history pressing down on it.
Below, streets were packed.
Vendors shouting over music.
Families bundled in coats.
Kids running with glowing sticks and cheap firecrackers.
And above it all—the distant holographic silhouette of the Radiant Empress flickering across public sky-screens, reminding everyone that humanity still had something watching over it.
Even after Black December.
Even after the Hollow.
Maison Bella Café had its own small contribution to the chaos.
A modest stall outside, serving warm food and drinks to the passing crowd. Nothing fancy—just comfort in a cup and plate. Hot broth, sweet pastries, spicy skewers, and steaming drinks that cut through the winter air.
Mom moved efficiently behind the counter, calm as always, smiling like the world wasn't ending in slow motion somewhere beyond the walls.
Niero worked beside her.
Passing cups.
Collecting payments.
Occasionally watching the fireworks reflect in the metal rim of a mug.
Behind them, Sophie and Daisy ran deliveries between customers, weaving through the crowd with practiced chaos. Daisy kept pointing at every firework like she was personally responsible for them. Sophie kept correcting her like a tired older sibling who had given up winning.
Aunt Alura leaned against a crate nearby, sipping something suspiciously strong, watching the crowd like she was judging the entire concept of celebration.
Father Creed stood a little further back, arms folded, eyes scanning the sky—not in fear, but in habit. Like even fireworks still felt a little too close to something worse.
Niero noticed it.
That undercurrent beneath the celebration.
People laughed.
People cheered.
People made resolutions about "a better year."
But everyone, somewhere deep down, knew what those words really meant.
We survived another one.
That was the real celebration.
A nearby broadcast chimed through the public speakers:
"—and as we enter 2088, we remind citizens that Radiant Day approaches in three months. Let this year be one of renewal under the Empress's light—"
The message blended into applause and noise.
Mom glanced at Niero briefly while handing a drink to a customer.
"You okay?" she asked casually.
Niero paused, then nodded.
"…Yeah."
He looked up at the sky again.
Fireworks exploded—gold, violet, electric blue—briefly painting the clouds like a torn canvas of color.
For a moment, his thoughts drifted again.
The wall.
The breakthrough.
The unknown limit inside him.
But this time…
it didn't swallow him.
Because beside him, there was noise.
Warmth.
Family.
Movement.
Life continuing anyway.
Mom nudged him lightly with her elbow.
"Don't zone out again," she said. "We're busy."
Niero exhaled a small laugh.
"Yeah, yeah."
He picked up another cup.
And went back to work.
Behind them, the new year kept burning bright across Mega-Ark City 01—
not as an answer…
but as a promise that questions were still allowed to exist.
-
=====
-
Days turned into weeks.
Weeks turned into months.
And Niero kept moving.
There wasn't a dramatic shift in routine anymore—no more "new discovery" feeling attached to every training session. It had settled into something heavier, quieter. Like repetition carved into muscle memory.
Morning sparring with Mom came first.
The D-Blockade Dojo adjusted itself like a living thing around them—gravity shifting, floors tilting, pressure increasing without warning. Mom didn't hold back anymore than she needed to. Not out of cruelty, but precision. Every strike was instruction disguised as punishment.
Niero learned to read her pauses more than her attacks.
That was how he survived.
Afternoons belonged to Father Creed.
Firearms laid out like relics from a forgotten age—AK platforms, revolvers, older modular rifles that predated Dominion standardization. Creed didn't teach flash. He taught control. Breathing. Discipline. The idea that a weapon wasn't power—it was responsibility with recoil.
"Don't fight the gun," Creed would mutter. "Learn its language."
Niero was starting to understand what that meant.
Even if his hands still sometimes remembered bruises more than lessons.
And then there was Ego-Space.
The War Room.
A place where time bent in on itself like a closed fist.
Inside, Niero fought endlessly—simulated Hollowborn, constructed enemies, fractured echoes of past sparring data, even warped versions of Mom's combat matrix refined again and again.
There was no cheering there.
No café noise.
No snow.
Just repetition, failure, adjustment, repeat.
Sometimes he won quickly.
Sometimes he lost so hard he had to sit in silence before trying again.
But he always returned.
Outside, life continued normally enough to feel almost insulting.
Sophie and Daisy's Sororitae aspirations grew louder as Radiant Day approached. Alura kept drifting between responsibility and chaos like it was a full-time profession. Mom still ran the café like nothing in the world could truly interrupt it.
And Father Creed… still watched the sky sometimes when he thought no one noticed.
Niero didn't say it out loud, but he felt it.
The wall was still there.
Not gone.
Not broken.
Just… closer now.
-
Inside the Ego-Space, time didn't pass—it stacked.
Each failed attempt at synchronization felt less like a moment and more like an impact layered on top of the last one. Niero sat in the center of the War Room, cross-legged, breathing uneven, hands trembling slightly as he tried again.
The Stellarion Core system floated within his inner perception like a fractured constellation.
One central star—himself.
Three smaller ones orbiting it: mind, body, spirit.
And between them… friction.
Not separation anymore.
Resistance.
He tried everything he could think of.
Fear—he let it rise until it almost swallowed him.
Doubt—he gave it form, gave it voice.
Rage—he let it burn hot enough to fracture his focus.
Nothing held.
Every attempt ended the same way: partial alignment, brief coherence… then collapse.
A violent recoil through his system.
He coughed again, blood misting faintly in the simulated air of Ego-Space.
"Still… not enough," he rasped.
Vuldyr's presence flickered nearby, watching but not interfering. That was the rule now. Guidance, not intervention.
> ["You are approaching the threshold repeatedly," she said softly. "But your cohesion factor remains unstable."]
Niero wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
"I know."
He closed his eyes again.
Mom's words resurfaced without permission.
Willpower and faith in yourself.
You'll know when the time comes.
He exhaled slowly.
And instead of fear… instead of rage… instead of forcing something broken to align—
he tried something else.
He didn't push the cores.
He listened to them.
The central star pulsed.
Not as command—but as identity.
The three orbiting aspects—mind, body, spirit—responded differently this time.
Not resisting.
Not obeying.
Communicating.
Like they were not parts to be controlled, but expressions of the same existence trying to understand itself.
For a brief moment—
the rotation stabilized.
Not forced.
Not violent.
Just… aligned.
The Stellarion Core system held.
A perfect, quiet synchronization.
Niero's breath caught.
"…This—"
Then his instinct kicked in.
Excitement.
Expectation.
He tried to lock it in.
And the moment he did—
the balance broke.
The system shattered outward with a sharp internal recoil.
Niero gasped, collapsing forward as Ego-Space registered the failure.
Coughing.
Blood flickering in digitalized fragments.
Pain echoed through his chest like a warning bell that didn't care about progress.
But something was different this time.
He didn't drop backward into full regression.
He didn't lose ground.
He stayed where he was.
Like the system… remembered the attempt.
Vuldyr stepped closer, her expression tightening slightly.
> ["…That was closer than before,"] she noted.
Niero stayed on his hands for a moment, breathing hard.
"…Yeah," he said between coughs.
He wiped his mouth again, slower this time.
"I felt it."
A pause.
Not victory.
Not failure.
Something in between.
He looked down at his hands.
Not shaking from pain this time.
From realization.
"…It's not about forcing them together," he muttered.
Vuldyr tilted her head slightly.
Niero's eyes narrowed faintly.
"It's about stopping them from fighting each other."
Silence.
Even Ego-Space seemed to pause at that thought.
Vuldyr didn't answer immediately—but her gaze sharpened, as if she was quietly recalculating what she was seeing.
Niero slowly exhaled.
Then, despite the blood and pain still lingering in his system…
he didn't stop.
He reset his posture.
Closed his eyes again.
And tried once more—not to conquer the core…
but to understand it.
Niero stayed kneeling in the center of the Ego-Space War Room, breathing unevenly as the residual echoes of the failed synchronization faded from his body.
Vuldyr hovered nearby, her expression no longer just analytical—now visibly concerned.
> ["You need to stop for today,"] she said firmly. ["Continued attempts at forced synchronization are causing cumulative internal feedback. Your body is not a machine that can ignore damage indefinitely."]
Niero wiped his mouth again, slower this time, and shook his head.
"I need to fix it," he muttered. "I can feel it getting closer. My willpower aspect—it's holding longer than the others. That means Mom was right. That's the key."
Vuldyr's wings shifted slightly, geometric lines pulsing as she processed his condition.
> ["That may be true,"] she admitted, ["but proximity is not completion. You are not failing because you lack strength. You are failing because your system is unstable under forced iteration."]
Niero frowned.
"So what—you're telling me to just stop?"
> ["Rest,"] Vuldyr corrected. ["Recovery is not stagnation. It is consolidation."]
He opened his mouth to argue—
Then she cut in.
> ["And you will rest, because tomorrow is the 21st of January."]
That made him freeze.
"…What?"
Vuldyr looked at him directly.
> ["Your Blood Dominion military academy try-out."]
Silence hit harder than any training rebound.
Niero sat back slightly, the weight of it landing all at once.
"…Oh shit! That's tomorrow," he repeated, quieter.
His mind immediately tried to calculate everything left unfinished. The breakthrough. The instability. The incomplete synchronization. The feeling that he was standing right at the edge of something he couldn't cross yet.
And now the door was opening anyway.
He exhaled sharply through his nose.
"…Perfect timing," he muttered, more frustrated than panicked.
Vuldyr's tone softened slightly, but stayed firm.
> ["Niero. You are overestimating the gap between your current state and your objective."]
He looked up at her.
She continued.
> ["At Level 30, with your accumulated Ascension attributes, traits, and external training parameters from Ripley Unit One, Two, and Creed Protocol instruction—you are significantly beyond baseline academy candidates."]
A pause.
> ["You are not entering as someone who needs to survive selection."]
Her wings flickered once.
> ["You are entering as someone who is statistically expected to dominate it."]
Niero frowned slightly.
"…That sounds like a curse more than reassurance."
> ["It is a fact,"] Vuldyr replied. ["Even without your breakthrough, your physical capability, combat adaptation, and weapon proficiency exceed standard entry thresholds."]
She tilted her head.
> ["In simpler terms: the try-out will feel like a walk in the park."]
Niero let out a short breath, half laugh, half disbelief.
"A walk in the park…" he repeated.
His fingers tightened slightly against his knees.
"That's not what I was aiming for."
Vuldyr didn't respond immediately.
Then:
> ["Then adjust your expectation for now,"] she said calmly. ["You do not need to reach transcendence before tomorrow. You need only perform within your current verified capability."]
Niero lowered his gaze.
The Ego-Space War Room around him remained silent, vast, and waiting.
Finally, he exhaled slowly.
"…So I just go in as I am," he said.
Vuldyr nodded once.
> ["Yup."]
A pause.
> ["And you win with what you already have."]
That lingered.
Not as comfort.
But as pressure.
Because Niero understood what that meant.
Not that he was ready.
But that he had already crossed a threshold others hadn't even reached yet.
He slowly stood up.
His body still ached from the repeated failed synchronization attempts, but this time he didn't push it further.
"…Fine," he said quietly.
He glanced at the floating constellation of his Stellarion Core one last time.
The wall was still there.
But now…
He had to walk past it in a different way.
He turned slightly.
"…Let's go back," he said.
Vuldyr nodded.
And for the first time that day—
Niero stopped fighting the system.
And started preparing to face the world outside it.
-
=====
-
<<<[ Ch 25, Part 02 - END ]>>>