The horses moved fast.
Not recklessly, not loudly—but with the practiced efficiency of animals trained for one purpose only: speed without spectacle. The special bastion roads cut through Hydros like hidden arteries, smooth stone paths reinforced with subtle Kosmo channels that eased strain and muted sound. They curved away from markets and terraces, bypassed plazas and bridges, and carried riders toward strategic points without ever forcing them through the city's pulse.
Midarion leaned forward slightly in the saddle, instinctively matching the rhythm of the horse beneath him. The wind pressed cool against his face, tugging at the blue fabric beneath his armor plates. Each breath felt sharp, clean. Focused.
Viktor rode beside him with infuriating ease.
One hand on the reins, posture relaxed, coat fluttering open just enough to reveal that he still wore almost no armor at all. His gaze drifted between the road ahead and the horizon beyond the outer walls, sharp despite his casual demeanor.
"You're gripping the reins like they might escape," Viktor said lightly.
Midarion loosened his hands by a fraction. "Habit."
"Mm. Try not to throttle the horse. It's innocent in all this."
Midarion almost smiled.
They rode in silence after that, broken only by the steady percussion of hooves and the distant hush of water channels slipping through the city. As the Sanctuary fell behind them, Hydros changed. The buildings grew lower, broader. Defensive structures replaced elegance. Watchtowers rose like sentinels carved from the land itself.
At the western perimeter, soldiers were already waiting.
They noticed Viktor first.
A ripple passed through the line—not tension, not fear, but recognition. Someone straightened. Someone else laughed.
"Well I'll be damned," a voice called. "If it isn't this old fool."
Another followed immediately. "Careful, hide your daughters. Pervert Fritz is here."
Viktor raised a hand in greeting, unfazed. "Lovely to see you too. I see discipline hasn't improved."
"Discipline's fine," a soldier replied. "We just save it for people who deserve it."
Midarion reined in his horse, stunned.
There were salutes, yes—but lazy ones. Half-smiles. Easy nods. Someone tossed Viktor a waterskin without asking. He caught it one-handed, drank, then tossed it back.
"You're all alive," Viktor said. "Good sign."
"For now," another guard said. "You here to jinx it?"
Midarion glanced between them, uncertain. He had never seen a commander greeted like this. No stiffness. No fear. No distance. Authority existed—but it breathed.
Then a sharp voice cracked through the air.
"Enough!"
The temperature shifted instantly.
A woman strode forward, armor scratched and practical, hair pulled back tight. Her presence snapped the line straight without effort.
"You want to joke, do it after we confirm we're not about to get eaten," she barked. "Eyes sharp. Ears open."
Viktor straightened immediately. Midarion mirrored him without thinking.
The woman stopped in front of Viktor, hands on her hips. "Commander Fritz. Or should I say Acting Captain."
"Please don't," Viktor replied. "It gives me hives."
She snorted, then nodded once. "Report's thin. We swept the perimeter twice. Checked all crossings after your alert. Nothing moved. Nothing spoke. Nothing bled."
Viktor's eyes narrowed slightly. "But the detection wasn't wrong."
"No," she said flatly. "It wasn't."
She gestured westward. "That's where the signal spiked. Then vanished."
Viktor nodded. "All right. I'll take a look."
She glanced at Midarion. "And the kid?"
"Comes with me."
Her eyebrow twitched upward. "Your funeral."
They moved out with a small escort—five guards, spread loose but alert. Communication artefacts hummed softly in Midarion's ear, threads of quiet voices linking them back to the perimeter.
The land beyond the walls was deceptively calm. Low grasses rippled gently. The ground sloped unevenly, scarred faintly by old constructions buried beneath centuries of reinforcement. The barrier's presence was subtle here—a pressure more than a wall.
They reached the marked zone.
Nothing.
No tracks. No residue. No disturbances. The air smelled clean. Too clean.
One of the guards shifted. "Could've been a false—"
Midarion stiffened.
A sound brushed the edge of his hearing. Not a noise exactly. More like… pressure. A vibration too low, too deep.
He dismounted abruptly and dropped to one knee.
"What are you—" a guard began.
"Don't," Viktor said sharply.
Midarion pressed his ear to the ground.
There it was again. Faint. Rhythmic. Like something vast drawing breath beneath layers of earth.
Heat flared.
Viktor felt it a heartbeat before it happened.
He lunged.
The ground exploded.
Stone and dirt tore upward as massive shapes burst free—armored bodies coiled and uncoiling, plates grinding against one another. Giant armadillo-like beasts erupted from beneath the soil, each the size of a carriage, eyes glowing with unnatural light.
Sinister Kosmo flooded the air.
Midarion staggered back, heart hammering. The pressure alone felt suffocating.
"Spirit-possessed," Viktor said calmly, though his jaw was tight. "Mid-rank."
"They shouldn't be here," one of the guards shouted.
"No," Viktor agreed. "They shouldn't."
The beasts spoke.
Rough, layered voices echoed from within their throats. "Flesh above… weak… ripe…"
Midarion's skin crawled.
Viktor sighed. "Yes, yes. Very intimidating. Listen carefully." He turned to the group. "I can't engage yet."
Viktor's gaze never left the ground beneath them.
Something unseen was already moving there.
Midarion blinked. "What?"
"I'm busy."
"With what?" Midarion snapped, then caught himself. "Sir."
Viktor's mouth twitched. "Try not to die. I'll explain later."
Midarion stared. "You lazy old man!"
Viktor laughed. "See? You're learning."
The beasts charged.
Midarion moved.
He raised his blade instinctively. "Seirei Kaihō—"
Nothing happened.
The air stayed still.
For half a heartbeat, Midarion's mind went completely empty.
Not fear.
Worse—certainty.
Of course it didn't work.
The beasts paused, confused.
Midarion froze. Heat rushed to his face. He had trained this. Visualized it. Felt it a thousand times in meditation.
And now—
The beast laughed—but the sound fractured, as if several throats spoke at once.
"Empty child," it said, the words lagging behind the movement of its jaws.
Midarion snarled and lunged.
Berserker struck—still sheathed—but this time, Kosmo surged. Five seconds. That was all he could manage.
The impact rang like a bell. Cracks spidered across the beast's armor. Blood spilled.
It roared.
"Good," Viktor called. "Again. Control your breath. Step closer."
Midarion obeyed.
Strike. Recoil. Strike again.
The beast reeled, confused. "How—"
Midarion slammed the blade down a third time. The creature collapsed, spirit screaming as it dissipated.
Around them, the guards fought hard—but they were slowing. Kosmo reserves thinning.
A second wave surfaced.
Midarion heard them before he saw them.
His stomach dropped.
One beast broke away, drawn by blood. It barreled toward the wounded.
Midarion moved without thinking.
He stepped in front of them.
The beast loomed, grinning.
Viktor's expression changed. Sharp. Alarmed.
Now, Filandra whispered.
"I can't," Midarion thought. "I don't have time."
Imagine it.
The world narrowed.
Midarion reached—not for words, but intent.
Strings bloomed from nothing. Pale, spectral threads snapped into existence, weaving instinctively into a net.
They vibrated—not with sound, but intention.
Every strand pulled against his chest as if anchored to his heartbeat.
The net existed because he needed it to.
The beast slammed into it. Halted—just for a heartbeat.
Midarion smiled.
Then his legs gave out.
Something tore behind his eyes, sharp and white.
He tasted iron.
Viktor stepped forward.
The air shifted.
Invisible threads tightened, converging.
"Seirei Kaihō. The Omniscient Weaver—Nemerys."
It answered.
What followed was not a battle.
It was an execution.
The air itself seemed to decide the outcome before the blows landed.
Then everything stopped moving.
Viktor moved once. Each strike landed where it needed to. Every beast fell as if their weakness had been written into the air.
Silence returned.
Midarion watched, breath ragged.
When it was over, Viktor turned to him.
"You did well," he said.
Then, more quietly: "But don't ever throw your life away like that again."
Midarion nodded.
Only then did he understand.
Viktor had been watching all along.
Trusting him.
And watching to see whether he would break—or choose differently next time.