I ran across the plaza toward the sound before I consciously decided to. Something heavy had struck something harder, and the air itself felt displaced. A fight. Too loud for officers sparring, too violent for riot control. I clenched the Sun Badge on my chest as I sprinted. I am proud to wear this.

  It wasn’t handed to me lightly—exemplary conduct, discipline, loyalty. I stood before Leo himself when it was pinned to my uniform, and I remember his calm, assessing gaze, almost warm. I remember thinking I would gladly die for that look of approval.

  And now Vellin—someone I once exchanged pleasantries with in passing—is tearing this all down. Why end something so great? Yes, there were darker days. Yes, Sun did not discriminate when it crushed opposition. But that was the past. We were stabilizing. Reforming. Weren’t we? This war is fruitless, and even if Vellin stopped now, would Leo let him live? No. There is no returning from betrayal at that level.

  I vaulted over fractured tile, boots striking uneven stone, glancing upward at chunks of missing building and walls cracked inward. The Major Clans, this deep? We’re in the second ring—the inner sectors should be secure. I rounded the corner at full speed and saw it.

  A black figure, not running, not lunging... flowing. It moved impossibly fast, blade flashing in tight, efficient arcs with no wasted gestures, no grand swings, no emotional flares. Every cut ended at exactly the depth needed. Three officers were already down in the instant I processed what I was seeing—down, headless, their bodies not yet collapsed.

  I stopped, not from fear but from calculation. Every drill, every lesson from veterans who survived real wars screamed the same thing. If you move, you die. This wasn’t cowardice—it was hierarchy. That figure operated far beyond me. I recognized two of the fallen officers, decorated veterans. Their heads lay several meters away. That means this figure is near transcended level. I am a soldier, an expendable piece in a larger machine. My hand trembled, not from terror but from clarity.

  Something in the rubble to my left caught the light.

  A darksteel-reinforced bow with one arrow left in the quiver. Darksteel. I swallowed. I can at least do this. If I cannot win, I can distract; if I cannot kill, I can wound; if I cannot wound, I can slow it down. I moved low and careful, stepping so debris wouldn’t crunch too loudly.

  Two officers remained alive, attempting a coordinated pinch from front and rear. Brave. Futile. The black figure pivoted subtly at the waist, the blade tracing a horizontal circle—both heads separated cleanly in the same instant, bodies collapsing in opposite directions.

  Silence followed, broken only by the thud of falling bodies. I drew the bow, the reinforced string resisting as my fingers strained to pull it back. Breathe. Inhale. Exhale halfway. Aim for center mass. Release. The arrow cut through the air with a metallic hiss. It was perfect.

  It hit—no, it didn’t.

  The figure caught it barehanded, the darksteel tip embedding slightly into its palm before stopping. Blood dripped onto stone.

  My stomach dropped. I’m dead.

  There was no universe where someone with that reaction speed would spare the shooter. The figure turned its head slightly toward me; I couldn’t see its face clearly, but I felt the weight of its attention.

  My legs locked. Run? Pointless. Scream? Pointless. Beg? Pointless.

  A tear slid down my cheek without permission. So this is it. I thought of the ceremony, the badge, Leo’s steady gaze, the barracks, the drills, the nights polishing weapons until it reflected pride back at me. I failed.

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  The figure stood there one long second, removed the arrow from its palm, and let blood drip onto stone. It did not throw the arrow back. It did not dash toward me. It turned—and vanished. Not ran. Vanished. One blink and its presence dissolved into the wider chaos of battle, the pressure disappearing like a blade withdrawn from flesh. Silence returned.

  Why? Why let me live?

  My hands still shook around the bow as I lowered it. I keep calling that figure “it” but it’s human. Humans can reach that level; transcended are proof. Yet I don’t want to call it human. If I do, I must admit a human did this—chose to decapitate my comrades with that kind of efficiency, chose not to kill me. I need to call it “it”. A monster. Monsters are simpler. Monsters don’t hesitate. Monsters don’t evaluate threats and decide some aren’t worth eliminating. Monsters don’t spare soldiers.

  But it spared me.

  “Hey, loser, move out of the way.” I said.

  The soldier flinched at the tone more than the words. He shifted aside immediately and slipped out the door without another glance back. The wooden frame rattled as it shut. Coward. He could’ve stayed. Watched. Learned something about dominance. Instead, he chose safety.

  I dropped to my knees in front of her, boots thudding against the warped wooden floorboards. My hands slid around her waist, fingers digging into the fabric of her uniform. Iron Union insignia. Major Clan. Supposed to be proud. Supposed to be elite.

  She had strength, I’ll give her that. Her earlier punch had snapped my head back a few centimeters. Solid raw power. But that was it—raw. Undisciplined. No structure in her footwork, no awareness of angles, no conservation of motion. Major Clans always thought brute force made up for refinement.

  Sun trained better. Sun demanded better.

  That’s why they recruited me.

  There’s nothing Sun can complain about. I produce results. I eliminate enemies. I enforce order. I do what’s necessary in war. If that makes me cruel, then fine—war isn’t clean.

  I leaned closer, wiggling my tongue mockingly. “I’ll make this enjoyable for you... baby!”

  She tensed under my grip. Muscles rigid. Jaw clenched. I liked that. I liked when they didn’t collapse immediately. Strength made it interesting.

  But then her eyes shifted—past me.

  Not downward. Not closed in fear. Past me.

  She wasn’t looking at me at all.

  I frowned and turned my head.

  My friend was on the floor. Not kneeling. Not stunned.

  Dead.

  A single knife wound in his neck, clean and precise. Blood pooled beneath him, spreading outward in a dark halo. His eyes were still open, frozen in confusion. No struggle. No warning.

  Crouched behind him was a figure in a black hood. Still. Balanced. Watching.

  I was able to raise my fists quickly.

  Only two things caught the faint lantern light filtering through the cracked window: the shoulder armor, and his powerful hand.

  It spoke.

  The voice wasn’t natural. It came through some kind of device—deep, mechanical, filtered like those new static things.

  “There were always bad apples like you... but in my day we handled them.”

  I sliced his head off in a single, economical motion. The blade passed clean through vertebrae and tendon, and for a fraction of a second his body remained upright, confused by the absence of command from a severed brain. Then gravity remembered him. The head rolled once across the warped floorboards before striking the leg of a table. The body followed, collapsing in a heavy slump.

  Blood sprayed outward in an arterial fan.

  I stepped through it and unfurled my cape in the same motion, letting the thick fabric catch the worst of the spatter. It absorbed the crimson mist before it could stain the walls, the floor, the woman. A habit. Clean scenes are easier to leave behind.

  The woman did not scream.

  That interested me.

  She stood there breathing hard, shoulders rising and falling, but no hysteria, no wailing. Her fists were still clenched from earlier. She had backbone. Most don’t. Most break when such a fate stands a few feet away.

  I turned slightly toward her, wiping the blade once along the inner lining of my cape before letting it rest at my side. “Leave. The rebellion can continue without you…”

  My voice was filtered through the modulator. Impersonal. It needed to be.

  She struggled to her feet. Her legs wavered once, then steadied. Composure reassembled itself across her features piece by piece, like armor being strapped back on. She was older than I first thought—mid-thirties, perhaps. Lines at the corner of her eyes. Someone who had seen war before today. Today was not her best one.

  She looked at me.

  Admiration. Care.

  That was dangerous.

  She ran to the nearest wall and drove her fist through it. Plaster and brick fractured outward in a violent burst, sunlight pouring through the hole in jagged beams. She climbed through the debris without looking back fully, just enough to speak over her shoulder.

  “Thank you... I will find you to repay this debt one day.”

  That’s the thing.

  Nobody can find me.