Somewhere in the Sand Graveyard…
Sand hissed over stone like a living thing trying to erase every trace of movement.
Gillan stood alone in the aftermath.
The Apex lay half-sunken in a shallow crater, its body still twitching in the last moments before it became truly still. Its shell—thick, layered, ridged like armor—had been split cleanly through the center. Not hacked. Not shattered.
As the movement finally faded, fissures of pale light began to seep from the ruptured core. Particles—fine, luminous motes—rose slowly from the carcass, drifting upward as if carried by an unseen current.
They converged toward Gillan.
The light sank into his body without resistance, dispersing beneath his skin in a brief, muted glow before vanishing entirely.
The Apex was dead.
And its strength had already moved on.
Cut.
Gillan's breathing was quiet. Controlled. The kind of calm that didn't come from comfort, but from repetition—because here, hesitation was a luxury.
He lowered his hand slowly, the orange Aura retreating from his knuckles in a tight spiral before dissolving into nothing.
For a moment, he didn't move.
Not to rest.
To listen.
The Sand Graveyard had its own language: distant shifts in dunes, the faint crunch of rock beneath sand, the whisper of wind that sometimes wasn't wind.
Nothing approached.
Only then did Gillan exhale.
He crouched near the corpse and tore free a piece of its hardened shell—proof—then stood again, eyes narrowing as if the horizon itself could be measured and judged.
Adlet.
Gillan had heard the name more than once now.
He had seen it on the board in Savar months ago, low at the time—barely inside the top ten—but it had been there. Real. Unavoidable.
Faster than expected.
Gillan didn't like surprises.
Not because they angered him—because they meant variables he hadn't accounted for.
He stared at the dunes in the distance, face unreadable.
Adlet had stepped into the Sand Graveyard.
And lived.
Gillan turned away, already moving, his pace steady and relentless.
There was always another mission.
Always another hunt.
And the desert did not care about rivalries.
It cared only about what endured.
In another part of the Sand Graveyard, the wind carried different sounds.
Not the collapse of an Apex.
Not the thunder of battle.
Voices.
Sharp enough to cut through the constant hush of sand.
The Sand Graveyard didn't offer silence.
It offered absence—dunes stacked on dunes, no vegetation, no landmarks, the same pale sand swallowing distance until direction itself felt like a guess.
Linoa Neraid moved through it anyway, steady and controlled. Her scarf was pulled high, but loose strands of wavy blonde hair still slipped free, catching the dim glow. Her blue eyes stayed calm, even here, even now.
She crested a dune—and stopped.
Someone was already there.
A young woman stood a few dozen meters below, studying the sand as if listening for something beneath it. Long, straight chestnut hair fell freely down her back, unconcerned with the wind. Green eyes lifted the instant Linoa paused.
Nina Dryad.
Linoa closed her eyes for half a second.
"…Of course," she murmured.
Nina straightened slowly. No surprise. No tension. Just recognition.
"You too," she said. "I was starting to think this one might be different."
Linoa descended a few steps, stopping well short of her.
"This is the third time," she said calmly. "Same region. Same kind of target."
Nina tilted her head slightly.
"Is it?"
"Yes," Linoa replied. "And somehow you're always here when I arrive."
The wind dragged a thin veil of sand between them.
Nina's expression didn't change.
"I take missions," she said. "You take missions. The desert doesn't coordinate for our convenience."
Linoa watched her closely.
"Maybe," she said. "Or maybe you keep choosing the same ones."
Green eyes sharpened—not angrily, but alert.
"You're seeing patterns where there might not be any," Nina answered. "That's dangerous out here."
Linoa exhaled slowly.
"So is pretending coincidence explains everything."
A pause.
Not hostile.
Loaded.
Nina looked past her for a moment, scanning the dunes.
"If you're worried," she said, "then don't slow down."
Linoa's jaw tightened.
"That's not an answer."
Nina finally turned back to her, a faint edge creeping into her voice.
"No," she agreed. "It's just reality."
Silence stretched.
Then Nina spoke again, simpler this time.
"First one to find it fights it."
Linoa didn't hesitate.
"…Deal," she said.
For a heartbeat, they held each other's gaze—ice meeting something sharper than heat. Rivalry without shouting. Pressure without spectacle.
Then Nina Dryad's Aura stirred.
Brown, dense and earthy, it unfurled behind her in a sudden, clean surge—wings forming like hardened air given shape, carrying her upward with ruthless efficiency.
Linoa didn't hesitate.
White Aura bloomed from her back—bright, cold, and smooth—wings spreading wide as she launched after her.
Two figures rose above the dunes, cutting across the Graveyard in parallel lines—
and the desert, indifferent as ever, waited to see which one would reach death first.
Far from dunes and rivalries, another kind of battle was being fought—one without Aura, without Apexes, and with consequences just as permanent.
Atlantis did not feel like a city.
It felt like a machine that had learned to breathe.
Stone arches rose over canals and walkways, their surfaces polished smooth by constant passage. Light from the Stars fractured across water and marble, multiplying into pale reflections that made every corridor feel deeper than it should have been. Voices echoed strangely here—never fully distant, never fully close—like the city retained fragments of everything ever said within it.
In a modest building wedged between two larger trade houses, a new sign hung above the door.
Plain.
Clean.
Real.
Inside, the air smelled of ink, salt, and fresh wood.
Polo stood over a table buried beneath ledgers, stamped permits, and rolled contracts, sleeves pushed up, fingers darkened with ink rather than grease for once. His expression wasn't irritation—but focus, sharpened by resistance.
"They sent another stack," he said quietly. "Requests. Clarifications. 'Necessary adjustments.'"
He flipped through the pages, not really reading them anymore.
"All that," he added, "after the effort it took just to make them accept the idea in the first place."
Niccolo finished sealing a crate nearby, the sound grounding the room.
"They didn't laugh this time," Niccolo said. "That alone says enough."
Polo let out a breath that might have been a laugh if there had been humor in it.
"No," he agreed. "They listened. And the moment they did…"
He tapped the pile of documents with two fingers.
"They started slowing everything down."
He leaned back slightly, eyes lifting from the table.
"It took months to convince Protectors that relying on something new wasn't weakness," he continued. "That adapting wasn't betrayal of tradition."
A pause.
"And now that it worked, they're trying to bury it under ink."
Niccolo crossed his arms.
"That's how institutions defend themselves," he said. "Not with force. With delay."
Polo nodded once.
"Let them," he replied. "Paper only works if you stop moving."
The first invention had spread faster than anyone in Atlantis had predicted.
Shellshot.
A compact weapon engineered to threaten flying Apexes—designed not to win battles, but to deny uncontested airspace. It did not replace skill or affinity; it compensated for their absence. For Protectors whose Aura offered no answer to the sky, it became a way to respond, to force distance, to survive encounters that had once meant inevitable loss.
Coastal cities placed immediate orders, not for civilians, but for their stationed Protectors. Guild outposts requested standardized mounts and training protocols. Even seasoned veterans—those whose strength had never lacked force, only reach—found in it a solution they had never been offered before.
Flight had never been an unbeatable advantage.
But for the first time, it was no longer a decisive one—regardless of a Protector's rank, so long as they could channel Aura and adapt.
Then came the second.
A membrane applied directly to ship hulls—thin, flexible, and resistant in ways traditional plating could never be. It didn't stop attacks entirely, but it disrupted them. Apexes that struck the treated surface found their impact blunted, their claws sliding, their bites failing to find purchase. Ships that once avoided open waters began to move again, cautiously at first… then with growing confidence.
Survival at sea stopped being a gamble based purely on luck.
And then the third.
Not a weapon.
Not armor.
A cicatrizing cream intended for post-Apex injuries. Not a miracle solution—products like it had existed before—but this one mattered for a different reason. It was faster to apply, easier to store, and above all, affordable.
It reduced infection risk. Slowed blood loss. Kept wounds from worsening during long extractions or forced marches back to safety. For many Protectors, that margin meant the difference between finishing a mission… and never making it home.
Each invention targeted a different terror humanity had grown accustomed to accepting.
The sky.
The sea.
The aftermath.
None of them replaced Protectors.
None of them trivialized danger.
They extended the margin of survival.
And that margin—
was exactly what Atlantis feared.
Because each success brought copies.
Delays.
Audits.
New layers of paperwork designed to slow distribution under the guise of regulation.
Polo knew the pattern.
If they blocked one product, he'd design another.
If they copied it, he'd move on before the market caught up.
Innovation wasn't a single breakthrough.
It was pressure.
And pressure, applied consistently, always found a way through.
Atlantis noticed.
Niccolo picked up one of the devices and turned it slowly in his hand.
"Two alternatives showed up in the lower canal markets yesterday," he said. "Not copies. Approximations."
Polo let out a quiet breath through his nose.
"Of course," he replied. "They can't replicate it—so they pretend they don't need to."
Niccolo nodded.
"Cruder launch systems. Overloaded Aura conduits. Designs that look convincing until someone actually uses them."
"Until it misfires," Polo added. "Or fails at the one moment it matters."
He gestured toward the towering stack of documents on the desk.
"And when that doesn't slow adoption enough… this does."
Niccolo's gaze followed the motion.
"Paperwork."
"The safest weapon in the world," Polo said flatly. "If you can't outbuild it, you bury it. Inspections. Certifications. 'Operational risks.' Delays that sound reasonable and cost lives without ever saying so."
Niccolo set the device down with care.
"We knew they wouldn't let it spread unchecked."
"Yes," Polo agreed. "I just didn't expect them to pivot this fast."
He leaned back, eyes lifting—not unfocused, but already working ahead, tracing lines only he seemed to see.
"They'll stall Shellshot," he continued. "Slow approvals. Restrict distribution. Make every shipment a negotiation."
A pause.
"But they can't stall me."
Niccolo looked at him fully now.
Polo's expression sharpened—not defiant, not reckless. Certain.
"If Shellshot stops at the warehouse," he said, tapping the table once, "then I build the next answer. And the one after that."
His gaze flicked toward the shelf where unfinished prototypes waited in silence.
"They'll spend months regulating a solution that's already obsolete."
Niccolo studied him for a long moment.
"That pace," he said finally, "will draw attention."
Polo shrugged lightly.
"Good," he replied. "Attention means they're reacting. And reaction means we're ahead."
He reached for another letter, breaking the seal with renewed interest.
"Demand's climbing in Horus," he said. "Supplies. Equipment. Simple things that stop being simple when the desert eats them."
Niccolo's posture shifted. "That region doesn't forgive shortages."
"No," Polo replied. "And it doesn't wait."
For a moment, his grin softened—not into warmth, but into something quieter. Something personal.
"We don't get to slow down," he said. "Because someone out there isn't."
Niccolo didn't ask who.
He already knew.
The silence between them held—shared understanding, different paths, same pressure.
Then Niccolo closed the ledger with a firm sound. "We scale carefully," he said. "We protect the routes. We keep quality high."
Polo nodded. "And we keep building."
Outside, Atlantis continued to breathe—vast, indifferent, relentless.
Ready to bury them in process and protocol.
Or to be forced, inch by inch, to make room.
While merchants built routes and warriors built strength, far above the ordinary world, another kind of preparation moved in silence.
At the Darwin Academy, the upper floors were quieter than the arenas below.
No cheers.
No matches.
Only decisions.
Director Helion stood near a tall window, the pale light reflecting off the polished floor. He didn't look like a man who needed to shout to be obeyed.
He didn't turn when the door opened.
He simply spoke.
"You're late," he said.
A hooded figure stepped in without apology.
"You're early," the man replied.
They spoke like equals.
Or like people too deep inside the same machine to waste time pretending otherwise.
The hooded man approached and placed a folded paper on Helion's desk.
"For the next Aegis tournament," he said.
Helion took the paper without a word.
His eyes moved across the lines once—fast.
Then a second time—slower, as if confirming the shape of what was coming rather than the details.
"Potential participants," the man continued. "Names worth watching. Names worth removing. If we want to secure the maximum number of seats, we need information before they arrive."
He lowered the document onto the desk.
"It will be done."
No question. No hesitation.
Just a statement—clean, final.
Across from him, the hooded man remained still, hands hidden beneath the folds of his cloak. He hadn't come to persuade. Only to deliver.
Helion's fingers tapped the desk once.
"Anything else?"
"Nothing pressing," the man answered. "We'll address the rest at the next meeting."
Helion nodded faintly, already looking back down at the paper—as if the conversation had ended the moment he decided.
The hooded figure turned toward the door.
He stopped with his hand on it, not to ask permission—
only to leave something behind without calling it a warning.
"Things are shifting," he said. "Faster than usual."
Helion didn't react.
But the silence that followed felt… deliberate.
The man opened the door.
"Until next time," he added.
A beat.
"…Number Four."
And then he was gone.
Helion remained standing by the desk, the paper still within reach.
For a moment, the academy felt smaller than it should have.
Then he folded the document carefully and set it aside—
not like a report…
but like something meant to be used.
Months could change a person.
Sometimes slowly.
Sometimes all at once.
And sometimes, without asking.
Time had slipped by since his first steps in Savar—since the first time the Sand Graveyard had tried to grind him down and nearly succeeded.
Days folding into weeks, weeks into something quieter and harder to count.
And in total… it had been close to eleven months now, since Adlet had stepped into the Horus region and begun living by guild notices, blood, and distance.
The dunes were still the same.
The heat was still merciless.
The lack of landmarks still pressed against the mind like weight.
But Adlet moved through it as if the desert had finally stopped trying to kill him out of habit—
and started testing him with purpose instead.
He looked different now.
His clothes were worn beyond anything a village life could imagine—fabric thinned at the seams, patched where it had torn, stained in places no washing could truly erase. The straps of his pack had carved familiar lines into his shoulders. His boots had been repaired more than once, the soles hardened by endless sand.
His hair had grown out, longer than it used to be—dark strands falling messily around his face, pushed back when it got in the way, never truly tamed. Even his features had sharpened, not from age alone, but from repetition: heat, hunger, exhaustion, recovery, then forward again.
Behind him, a long serpent lay half-buried in the sand—fifteen meters of muscle and hardened scales twisted into stillness.
Adlet stood over it, his breathing slow and even.
The faint black horn of Aura receded from his forearm, leaving no trace behind. The power had been used cleanly, with no excess, no lingering violence.
The fight had been short. Decisive.
He knelt, tore free a proof from the corpse, then rose again, his gaze already lifting toward the dunes ahead. The mission felt finished, but his attention hadn't slowed with it.
Something settled under his skin.
Not a surge. Not a pull forward.
A readiness that held without pushing.
His Aura—all of it—had shifted.
Rank 4 had once been a distant line, something to cross or fail against. Now it felt different. Stable. Earned. Like ground that would hold his weight.
The desert hadn't offered it freely.
It had demanded payment.
And he had paid.
"Another one," Pami said.
The voice didn't need to retreat into the closed space they once relied on. It reached him more easily now, surfacing in the same flow of awareness that guided his steps through the dunes. The boundary between thought and sound had thinned—not by force, but by habit.
Adlet didn't break stride.
"Yeah," he said quietly. "It's getting almost too easy."
Each step carried him away from the body without hesitation. His pace stayed measured, unhurried, tuned to the terrain rather than the aftermath.
Somewhere deeper, the newest thread of power—swift, sharp, hungry—rested in silence, no longer restless.
The world hadn't grown safer.
Adlet had simply learned how to move through it.
Even on the Sand Graveyard…