02:45 AM, Nocturnus Standard Time.
(Approximately four hours after the incident in the back alleys of Nyxholm)
There was no up. There was no down.
There was only the Void. An endless ocean of black ink, cold and silent.
In the midst of that nothingness, Devon floated. He was stark naked, his pale skin looking pitiful amidst the absolute darkness. He was curled up, knees pressed tight against his chest, arms hugging his shivering shins. The fetal position. The most primal stance of self-defense when everything else has been stripped away.
He was merely a lump of flesh and soul drifting aimlessly, swept along in a silent current that carried him further and further from consciousness.
It felt lonely. It felt as if he had been abandoned by the universe itself. Was he dead? Was this actual hell? Not fire, but eternal solitude where he must float forever, cold and helpless.
He spun slowly in the void, bobbing like a dry leaf on the surface of a pitch-black lake.
Then, a disturbance.
A foreign sensation pierced the cold of the Void. Not sound. Not light. It was something far smaller, more intimate, and therefore, more disturbing.
Poke. Poke. Poke.
Something hard and pointed was rhythmically jabbing his cheek.
Devon groaned softly, his brow furrowing. He tried to swat the annoyance away, but his hand was restrained by something cold and heavy.
"Haa... look, he's awake," a low, teasing, slightly husky female voice whispered right above his face. "The Sleepyhead has finally decided to join the real world."
Devon opened his eyes.
His vision was immediately filled by the face of a woman looming over him. And instantly, Devon's breath hitched. His heart—usually beating with unnatural calm—jolted in shock.
Those eyes.
One burning red like the embers of hell. One icy blue as cold as an ocean trench. Heterochromia.
The face was gaunt, beautiful, with long pointed ears poking out from behind strands of hair.
"Kaelith...?" whispered Devon, his voice hoarse and full of disbelief. "You... you're still alive?"
The woman laughed, a soft sound, yet it held a different tone from the rough laughter of the soldier Devon knew. She tilted her head, her long hair—not the short shaggy cut Kaelith had, but smooth, straight hair reaching her back—fell forward, sweeping across Devon's face.
"Kaelith?" the woman repeated, her long, manicured finger tracing Devon's jawline. "I don't know who that is, Sweetie. But I'm not her."
She brought her face closer, until their noses almost touched. Devon could see that although the eyes were the same, the gaze was different. There was no hardness of a weary soldier there. Only a glint of dominant, confident mischief. And her body... though tall and slender, she lacked the bulky, scarred muscles of Kaelith. Her skin was smooth, pale, and soft.
"My name is Eira, Darling," she whispered, her breath smelling of cool mint. "And you are my sweet little prisoner."
Devon blinked, his brain processing the information. Not Kaelith. Similar, but not her. Eira.
Even though Devon disliked being touched casually, there was a strange sense of relief in his chest. Seeing a face so similar to a friend—or at least a colleague—he thought he had buried himself gave him a small, melancholic twinge of pleasure.
He shifted his gaze, trying to assess the situation.
He was inside the metallic interior of a Magitech Gunship. In the front cockpit, two goblins wearing tactical headsets were busy piloting the craft through a storm.
Devon tried to sit up straight, and a loud metal CLANG rang out.
He looked down. Both his hands were shackled tight to the armrests of his metal chair by thick magical cuffs blinking red. He couldn't move his hands more than a few inches.
Then he turned to the seat next to him.
Stormclaw sat there casually. The white feline Beastkin wasn't handcuffed at all. He was calmly licking the back of his furry hand, grooming his messy fur as if he were in the living room of his own home, not on a prisoner transport.
"Oi," Devon protested, rattling his chains in annoyance. "What the hell is this discrimination? Why is that cat allowed to roam free while I'm tied up like a Christmas package?"
Stormclaw stopped licking his hand. He turned to Devon, then gave a very convincing look of innocence—a perfect "I'm just a normal cat" look—before going back to cleaning his claws.
"Don't be stupid," a sharp, rasping voice cut in from the other side of the cabin.
Devon turned toward the sound. Sitting in the opposite seat, watching them with a short-barreled weapon on her lap, was a Shark-woman. Her skin was rough gray, sharp fins protruded from her arms, and her eyes were pitch black and emotionless.
"That creature," the Shark-woman said, gesturing at Stormclaw with her chin, "is just a wild beast with big muscles. But you..." Her eyes narrowed at Devon. "Intel reports say you're slippery. Manipulative. And extremely dangerous. We aren't taking risks with you."
"How mean," Devon muttered.
"Oh, don't listen to her," Eira interrupted. The elf woman didn't return to her seat. Instead, with a move that was bold and violated every security protocol, she sat on the armrest of Devon's chair.
Her slender thigh, clad in tight leather pants, pressed against Devon's shoulder. She leaned in, staring at Devon as if he were an interesting new toy.
"I don't think you look dangerous," said Eira, her finger playing with Devon's face again, poking his cheek. "You look... cute."
Her eyes shifted to the top of Devon's head.
"Especially with these things," she said.
Eira's hand reached up toward the side of Devon's head. There, amidst his black hair, a pair of red feathered wings had now fully grown. They were no longer small buds. They were real Valkyrie wings, spanning about 30 centimeters, the feathers fiery red and incredibly soft.
The wings twitched nervously as Eira's hand approached.
"Do—don't..." Devon tried to warn, but it was too late.
Eira's fingers touched the base of the right wing. She stroked it with a gentle motion, tracing the grooves of those sensitive feathers.
"Hhnngh..."
The sound escaped Devon's mouth without permission. It wasn't a groan of pain. It was a stifled whimper, a mix of overwhelming ticklishness and an electric sensation shooting straight down his spine. His body jerked stiff in the chair, his toes curling inside his shoes.
Eira paused for a moment, her eyes widening in pleasant surprise. The smile on her lips broadened, becoming something far more... hungry.
"Oh?" Eira chuckled, a low, teasing sound. "Sensitive, are we?"
She didn't stop. Instead, she began to stroke the wing more intensely, her finger tickling the underside where the nerves connected directly to Devon's sensory system.
"Sto... ahh... stop..." Devon tried to turn his face away, but the handcuffs held him. His usually pale and flat face was now flushed deep red. The wings on his head flapped wildly, helpless under the woman's touch.
Devon's typically cold and dismissive expression collapsed into a pitiful look rarely seen—his eyes slightly watery from the sensory overload, his lips pressed tight trying to hold back another embarrassing sound.
Eira loved it. She absolutely loved it.
She brought her face close to Devon's ear, savoring the reaction of the young man's body under her control.
"Too bad, Sweetie," Eira whispered, her breath tickling Devon's other ear. "You have to go into The Monolith. That place will eat you alive."
She squeezed the base of Devon's wing a little harder, making Devon gasp again.
"You're too pretty for a place like that," Eira continued with a tone that was sweetly condescending yet cruel. "Maybe... if you beg nicely, I'll visit you in your cell often? Just to... play with these wings again?"
Devon could only snort roughly, trying hard to gather the scattered remains of his dignity. He looked away, staring at Stormclaw as if asking for help.
Stormclaw just stared back, then slowly closed his eyes, pretending to sleep. Damn cat.
"The Monolith in sight!" shouted the goblin pilot from the front.
The aircraft banked sharply, diving toward a jet-black tower protruding from the stormy sea below. Devon stared at the terrifying structure, then glanced at Eira who was still smiling triumphantly beside him.
This is going to be a very long day, Devon thought resignedly.
Meanwhile, on the Murkfen Swamps Coastal Cliff.
The sea wind howled, carrying grains of salt that stuck to cold metal. Nightreaver stood at the edge of the cliff, his three-meter-tall biomechanical silhouette cutting through the dim moonlight.
He crossed his massive metal arms over his chest. On his back, a giant scythe with a vibro-blade edge hummed quietly in standby mode. The red eye lens on half of his skull face rotated, performing an extreme optical zoom toward a small dot receding in the sky—the VTOL aircraft carrying his target.
"Hhh..."
A mechanical sigh escaped his vocal speakers, sounding like steam venting from a leaking pipe.
He was a hunter. He completed contracts. But the tactical data scrolling before his retina flashed a blinking red warning: EXTREME DANGER ZONE. PROBABILITY OF DEATH: 99.9%.
Chasing a target into The Monolith wasn't about bravery anymore. It was about stupidity.
Nightreaver raised his left hand, pressing a button on his temple. A small hologram projector activated, beaming a blue screen into the night air.
Contacting: Client - Alaric Von Carstein.
Sanguine Castle. Secret Communication Room.
Lord Alaric sat in his throne-like chair, fingers massaging his temples. The room was dark, lit only by the glow of communication screens. When Nightreaver's face appeared, Alaric immediately straightened up.
"Report," Alaric said sharply. "Don't tell me you lost him again."
"Target has been secured by a third party," Nightreaver's voice sounded static and emotionless. "Morvax forces. They are transporting him via aerial combat vehicle."
"Damn Morvax..." Alaric growled, clenching his fist. "Where? Where are they taking the boy? To Harrowforge? To his soul factory?"
"Negative," Nightreaver replied. "Their flight vector points offshore. Coordinates match one specific location: The Monolith Maritime Penitentiary."
Alaric fell silent. His eyes widened slightly. "The Sea Prison?"
"My analysis concludes that Morvax does not intend to kill him, but to imprison him in the deepest level," continued Nightreaver. "To enter and extract the target... I require military-grade siege equipment. And the risk involves the total destruction of my unit."
Alaric ground his teeth. His ego was wounded. His brother was killed, and the killer was now out of reach, inside the most secure fortress in Nocturnus.
"I don't care!" hissed Alaric. "I want his head! If you have to destroy that prison, then do—"
"Stop it, Father."
The voice was calm, yet it cut through Alaric's rage like a scalpel.
In the doorway stood Cecilia Von Carstein. The young silver-haired girl walked in wearing an elegant black silk nightgown, hugging a crudely stitched teddy bear. Her beautiful but cold face looked at her father with a gaze far older than her appearance.
"Cecilia..."
"Nightreaver is just a bounty hunter, Father," Cecilia said flatly, walking closer to the desk. She stared at the hologram of the killing machine without fear. "He isn't a soldier, and he certainly isn't an irreplaceable asset. He's just a tool rented by the hour. Sending him to The Monolith is the same as throwing a coin into the ocean. Pointless."
Cecilia turned to her father, her expression bored.
"Uncle Luis was an idiot. He died because he was weak and careless. Is it worth draining the family treasury and risking open war with Morvax just to avenge a man who couldn't even distinguish friend from foe when drunk?"
Alaric gaped. His daughter's words were cruel, but true.
"Besides," Cecilia continued while twirling the button eye of her doll. "That human boy... going into The Monolith? He won't survive a single day. That place is full of monsters that will eat him alive, or guards who will break his bones one by one. Let that place do our dirty work."
Cecilia stared at the screen. "Right, Mr. Robot? You also don't want to become scrap metal at the bottom of the sea just because of my father's ego, do you?"
Nightreaver paused for a moment. "Young Mistress's analysis... is accurate. And I do not use gasoline, I use nuclear energy cells. Which are very expensive to waste."
Alaric sighed deeply, his shoulders slumping. He had lost the debate to his own daughter.
"Fine," said Alaric wearily. "You're right. Mission aborted."
"Payment?" asked Nightreaver immediately.
"Transfer is being processed. Consider it operational costs and hush money. Never mention the Von Carstein family's involvement in this mess."
"Accepted. Pleasure doing business with you."
The screen went dark. The connection was severed.
Back at the Coastal Cliff.
Nightreaver lowered his hand. A balance notification appeared in his vision.
"Mission complete. Partial," he muttered.
He turned, ready to leave the cliff. However, his motion sensors caught the helicopter moving further away in the distance. There was a strange urge in his logic circuits—a personality glitch that sometimes made him act impulsively. An itch to destroy something.
"Ah... why not?"
Nightreaver reached for the scythe handle on his back. The blade glowed red. He took a throwing stance, pistons in his legs hissing as they bore the weight. He calculated the trajectory. If he threw this scythe with full force, he could shear off the aircraft's tail rotor. Just an explosive farewell greeting.
"Bon voyage..."
GRAB.
Just as his mechanical arm was about to launch the weapon, a giant black-scaled hand gripped his wrist.
The grip was absolute. Like a hydraulic clamp that could not be resisted.
"What do you think you're doing, Scrap-heap?"
The voice was heavy, wet, and menacing.
Nightreaver turned slowly.
Viorak the Cyber Abyss stood beside him. The shark-cyborg giant towered over him, hot steam venting from the gills on his neck. His neon purple eyes stared at Nightreaver with an intensity that promised extreme violence.
"That helicopter is carrying my cargo," Viorak growled, revealing his serrated teeth. "If you throw your toy... I will rip your arm off and beat you with it until you're a dented tin can."
Nightreaver stared at Viorak. His sensors performed a rapid scan.
Target: Viorak.
Status: Alpha Predator.
Probability of Victory: 12%.
Financial Gain: 0.
"Tch," Nightreaver clicked, a static sound. "Boring."
He canceled his attack mode. Viorak released his grip.
Nightreaver sheathed his scythe with a casual motion, as if he hadn't just been threatened with disassembly.
"Take the trash then. I've been paid. I want to find some oil... I mean, a drink."
Without looking back, Nightreaver walked away from the cliff, his black cloak fluttering, returning to the shadows to find his next contract.
Viorak snorted, smoke billowing from his nostrils. He stared at the helicopter that had almost vanished over the horizon.
"Time to welcome the guest," he whispered.
Viorak walked to the edge of the cliff. He didn't hesitate. He jumped.
His massive body fell freely toward the raging waves below.
SPLASH!
The moment he hit the water, Viorak transformed. Jet thrusters on his back and legs ignited underwater, creating cavitation. He shot forward like a living torpedo, cutting through the ocean currents at supersonic speed, chasing the helicopter from the depths.