The road leading out of West Ashbourne was cracked and uneven, a graveyard of abandoned vehicles and half-buried bones. Hope walked at the front, twin daggers resting comfortably against his hips, his pace unhurried but alert.
Lyra floated slightly above the ground, boots barely touching the broken asphalt. "You know," she said lazily, "for someone who keeps talking about preparation, you sure like walking straight into danger."
Hope didn't slow. "Danger walks into us regardless. I just prefer choosing the terrain."
Seraphiel followed a few steps behind, wings concealed but ever-present, his eyes scanning the skies. "You both assume conflict is inevitable," he said calmly. "Sometimes avoidance is the wiser path."
Lyra snorted. "Tell that to the Beast scouts we passed an hour ago. Or the Blade patrol that tried to ambush us yesterday."
Hope glanced back, golden eyes sharp. "Which is why we're still alive."
That earned a reluctant smile from Seraphiel.
They reached the outskirts of Greyhaven Crossing, a former transport hub now turned into neutral ground. Traders, informants, mercenaries, and faction spies all passed through here—an unspoken truce enforced by mutual benefit.
Hope raised a hand. "No fighting unless necessary."
Lyra tilted her head. "Define necessary."
"If they try to kill us," Hope replied flatly.
"Ah. Reasonable."
Greyhaven buzzed with tension. Hushed conversations stopped when the trio passed. Eyes lingered on Seraphiel a bit too long. On Lyra, with fear. On Hope… with uncertainty.
"He doesn't look awakened," someone whispered.
"That's worse," another replied.
Hope ignored them.
Inside a half-standing terminal building, the trio sat around a rusted table. A hooded informant leaned forward, voice low.
"Pandora's announcement shook everything," he said. "Executives are split. Some are loyal to the old man's will. Others are preparing contingencies."
"Contingencies?" Hope asked.
"Assassinations. Sabotage. Theft." The informant hesitated. "And private contestants."
Lyra's eyes sharpened. "So even before the Race starts, they're trying to rig it."
"Yes. And not just Pandora. Blade is sending candidates. Beast too. Even independents with no faction are preparing."
Seraphiel folded his arms. "A competition fueled by greed and desperation."
Hope leaned back. "No. It's worse. It's a filter."
The informant frowned. "Filter?"
Hope's gaze darkened. "This Race will remove the weak, the reckless, and the unlucky. What remains… will be monsters."
As they left Greyhaven, Lyra walked closer to Hope than before.
"You're not just entering this race for power," she said quietly. "You're testing something."
Hope didn't answer immediately.
"…Yourself?" she pressed.
He finally spoke. "I need to know if I can stand among them. Not survive. Stand."
Seraphiel overheard and frowned. "Power without purpose is a fast road to ruin."
Hope stopped walking.
He turned, meeting Seraphiel's gaze head-on. "Then help me give it purpose."
The silence that followed was heavy—but not hostile.
Seraphiel exhaled slowly. "Very well."
Lyra smirked. "Look at that. A mutual understanding without punching. Growth."
Hope shook his head. "Don't get used to it."
That night, as the trio rested in the shell of an old rail station, Hope sat awake, sharpening his daggers.
Each movement was precise. Controlled. There was no hesitation in his hands—only memory.
Five bodies. Screams. Blood.
He closed his eyes.
[System Observation: User's Killing Intent – Stable]
[Evaluation: Combat Mindset – Highly Efficient]
No guidance. No praise. Just judgment.
Hope opened his eyes.
"If you're going to brood," Lyra said softly from across the room, "at least pretend you're not thinking about killing something."
He huffed quietly. "You're psychic. That's unfair."
She smiled faintly. "You're dangerous. That's worse."
Seraphiel watched them both, saying nothing—but committing everything to memory.
Far away, within a quiet, unmarked structure hidden deep beneath a ruined city, a lone figure stood before a projection of shifting battle reports.
He did not smile. He did not speak.
He observed.
Hope Hale.
Lyra Vale.
Seraphiel Kane.
"…Interesting," he murmured at last.
Not strong. Not dominant.
But adaptive.
The projection shifted—Pandora's sigil rotating slowly.
The figure turned away.
"Let the world burn a little longer."
Hope sheathed his daggers and stood.
"Tomorrow," he said, "we move closer to Pandora territory."
Lyra stretched. "Finally. I was getting bored."
Seraphiel nodded once. "Whatever awaits us… we face it together."
Hope didn't correct him.
For now, that was enough.