The sound of training clashed against the air—metal grating metal, boots pounding synthetic flooring, grunts of effort echoing off reinforced walls. But in one half of the Sentinel training hall, all eyes were fixed on a single duel.

  Commander Noire Valcrest moved like an executioner rehearsing. Her light green hair—touched with gilded ends—was tightly braided into a crownlike bun, two Dutch braids woven into the base with clinical precision. Not a strand out of place. Her posture was poised, unhurried, left hand gripping the rapier Lament, the right hand clasped calmly behind her back.

  She was outnumbered—three Initiates in formation against her alone.

  And yet, she wasn't losing.

  She wasn’t even trying.

  Lament didn’t hum with Horizon energy. Its edge was dormant, dulled in appearance—yet every strike Noire delivered disrupted the Initiates’ stance, every parry carved through their timing. Her footwork was artful and exact, a language of inevitability. Within moments, one Initiate dropped to a knee, weapon knocked aside. The second faltered from a timed sweep. The third surrendered outright, panting, his blade lowered in stunned surrender.

  She hadn’t broken a sweat.

  From the edge of the room, Leiger watched in silence, arms crossed, jaw tight.

  Youngest Commander in Sentinel history—nineteen. A full year younger than I was when I clawed my way up to Operative.

  Valcrest blood. Same as me. Same suffocating nobility. But unlike me, she was welcomed by the system she serves.

  And still, she asked—no, demanded—to be transferred here. To West. To the Graveyard.

  And I know exactly why.

  The Initiates cleared away in quiet, avoiding Noire’s gaze like it might cut them. Then her eyes found Leiger.

  Cold. Focused. Unforgiving.

  Noire took a single step forward, the floating threads of her Horizon-Weave Mantle shifting like a veil of judgment.

  “Rosewood.” The name dropped from her lips like a formal sentence, laced with disdain. “An unpleasantry I had hoped this station would relieve me of. And yet, here you stand.”

  The hall stilled.

  The murmurs cut short.

  Sentinels began to part the space between them with silent understanding. No one wanted to stand between that. Operatives backed away. Initiates took a knee, pretending to fix gear. Even veterans leaned against walls, waiting to see who would fall first.

  Leiger stepped forward.

  “Commander Valcrest,” she said with strained civility. Her voice tightened, a subtle rasp betraying the tension coiled beneath. Her ego wasn’t bruised—but it was bristling.

  The two women stood across from one another now, a perfect dueling distance.

  One, a symbol of precision and institutional grace.

  The other, a symbol of survival and defiance.

  Noire tilted her head slightly, studying Leiger with cold detachment.

  “No surprise you’d still carry the name,” she said. “Some people build legacies. Others drag them through mud and expect applause for not drowning.”

  Leiger’s jaw clenched. “And some people confuse obedience for integrity. You’d be amazed how often it feels like loyalty—until someone bleeds for the wrong cause.”

  A flicker crossed Noire’s otherwise impassive expression. Disdain sharpened into something colder.

  “Still as reckless as your father,” she said, voice soft as a scalpel. “And equally prone to collapse under scrutiny.”

  That was it.

  The final cord.

  Noire raised Lament, the rapier catching the light—not glowing, not humming, but perfectly angled.

  “Let’s be rid of the pleasantries,” she said flatly. “You’ve clawed your way to this station. Let’s see if the corpse of your ambition has teeth.”

  Leiger didn’t hesitate. Her Multi-Tool clicked once—expanding into its bladed form with a low arcane pulse.

  “Fine. Let’s correct each other.”

  The field was empty now, save for them.

  No signal. No rules.

  Just a storm waiting to happen.

  Without another word, they lunged.

  Steel met steel in a burst of sparks, the clash echoing like a gunshot through the training hall. Every Sentinel watching stiffened. This wasn’t a spar. It was a reckoning.

  Mid-strike, Noire’s voice cut through the clash—measured, venomous.

  “Careful, Rosewood. Rage makes your footwork sloppy.”

  Leiger snarled through her teeth, the remark gnawing at her self-control. She swung again, angling to catch Noire’s left side, but Lament parried it with frustrating ease.

  Noire still kept her right hand behind her back—tauntingly formal. Like she hadn’t even begun trying.

  She circled Leiger with the grace of a dancer and the eyes of a predator—calculating, fluid, waiting for a mistake she could carve open. Her footfalls were quiet, deceptively soft, as if the air itself bent around her movement.

  Leiger pivoted, refusing to turn her back, her grip tightening around the hilt of her longsword. The weapon felt heavier than usual—not in weight, but in pressure. She could feel it building.

  She didn’t panic. Didn’t falter. Just adjusted, calculating Noire’s next move by the tiniest shifts in her steps.

  Then it came.

  Noire lunged—blindingly fast—but Leiger met her strike and twisted it aside, just as the faint glow from her sword’s core surged. Arcane blue light flared through the runes engraved in the blade’s spine.

  Kinetic energy.

  She absorbed every blow Noire delivered like a battery. Now it was ready.

  Leiger locked her stance, pivoted hard on her heel—and struck.

  The blade screamed through the air in a half-moon arc, trailing a blur of searing light behind it. The pressure was palpable, the force enough to make nearby observers take an involuntary step back. Even the air split—a concussive gust burst outward as the kinetic charge released all at once.

  Noire’s eyes narrowed. She couldn’t parry it.

  Instead, she ducked low with perfect timing, her braid almost grazing the ground. The blade whooshed overhead, carving a faint scar into the training hall’s reinforced wall.

  Wind howled in the aftermath.

  Leiger gritted her teeth—she hadn’t been trained to discharge kinetic force. She had no idea how to stabilize the recoil, no idea how to pull back the momentum. But instinct and fury guided her now.

  She twisted her footing, dragging the blade into a full-moon arc, coming back around with twice the force—a seamless continuation.

  Noire’s head snapped up, eyes sharp. One rapier wasn’t enough anymore.

  She drew her second blade in a flash—Verdict—and crossed both weapons just in time.

  The impact of Leiger’s blade against Lament and Verdict created a sonic crack, a shockwave that burst outward. Dust lifted from the ground, and both their coats whipped around them violently. The hall seemed to hold its breath.

  Leiger held firm—but she could feel the charge in her blade dimming, bleeding away with each second it stayed locked against Noire’s defense.

  Then—new light.

  This time, it wasn’t hers.

  The filigree etchings along Lament and Verdict began to glow faintly. Cool silver veins came alive, pulsing with Horizon energy—slow, controlled, inevitable.

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

  Noire’s lips curved slightly—not a smile. A declaration.

  She was done holding back.

  Leiger’s grip on her longsword faltered the moment she felt it—an empty hollowness, like the weapon had breathed its last. The last traces of kinetic energy dispersed in a harmless pulse, and with it came a searing jolt through her chest and right arm. Her muscles spasmed violently. The backlash from her untrained use of the kinetic core punished her mercilessly. Noire barely exerted effort as she knocked Leiger back.

  The sword’s tip scraped across the ground before catching and digging in. Leiger dropped to one knee, bracing herself with it as her other hand gripped her arm. The strain was too real. Her breath came in tight, quiet pants, and her heart pounded like a war drum echoing failure.

  Across from her, Noire stood with effortless poise, her twin rapiers now fully awakened. Ethereal golden hues danced along the slender blades—hyper-condensed Voidglass cores laced with Etherium veins, impossibly light and impossibly sharp. They shimmered with Horizon-born power, responding to her neural impulses with such intimacy that golden tattoos bloomed like living art at her temples, pulsing with her thoughts.

  Noire tilted her head, lowering her blades, and took in Leiger’s condition with narrowed, calculating eyes.

  "A kinetic update to your Gadget?" she mocked. "Impressive improvisation, I’ll admit. But quick adaptivity isn't control. And judging by your trembling arm, you’ve hit your limit."

  Leiger said nothing. She just glared, jaw clenched against the aching fire in her body.

  Noire’s eyes narrowed, her voice turned cold. “Be prepared.”

  She charged.

  Leiger moved purely on instinct. “Seven,” she commanded.

  Her multi-tool shimmered in response, collapsing from its elongated sword form back to the baton, then unfolding with a snap into a medium-sized shield just as Noire struck.

  The impact landed like a warhammer to stone.

  Leiger grunted but stood her ground. The shield absorbed and dispersed the blow, a miracle of arcane tech and timing. But her body was wrecked—her muscles screamed, her lungs burned, and her legs trembled under the weight of pressure, fatigue, and pain.

  Noire smiled, cruel and perfect. “There she is,” she whispered.

  And then came the rain.

  Lament and Verdict rained down on her shield with brutal grace, each strike ringing out like a symphony of torment. The blows echoed through the hall, rattling through Leiger’s bones as Noire moved like a serpent with wings—quick, fluid, merciless. The shield held, but Leiger’s footing faltered. The assault wasn’t just physical.

  “You hide now, do you?” Noire hissed, voice dripping venom. “Behind that toy, like a wounded sheep. Is this the proud Rosewood I heard so much about?”

  Each word was a dagger.

  “You keep that chin up so high, pretending everyone’s beneath you—fueling that crumbling noble pride of yours.”

  Leiger’s teeth dug into her lip. Her arms trembled. She said nothing.

  But Noire wasn’t done.

  “You think you're better than the rest of us? That your disgrace somehow makes you special?” Her blades slammed into the shield again and again. “You're just like your father, Leiger. Blind with ambition. So consumed by your goal you’d abandon anyone—anything—to chase it.”

  Leiger’s eyes widened—just slightly.

  “You’re a spitting image of him. Darius Rosewood. A man who ruined lives chasing a dream of greatness. That same filth runs in your blood, doesn’t it?”

  The last blow hit something deeper than flesh. Leiger's body was already at its limit, but her pride—her soul—flared.

  “Shut the hell up!” she growled through clenched teeth.

  With a guttural cry, she slammed her shield outward with all the force her battered body could muster. Noire, surprised but swift, leapt back in a blur of grace. The shield crashed into the ground like a thunderclap, unleashing a minor kinetic tremor that cracked it and kicked up a shroud of dust around Leiger.

  Noire landed lightly outside the cloud of debris, her glowing rapiers held ready.

  For a heartbeat, everything was silent.

  Then the dust stirred again—shifting in the rising pulse of something… gathering.

  Then suddenly, a whisper broke through the dust.

  “Five,” another voice commanded.

  Leiger rose from the haze like a revenant. Her long stick’s core flared with a brilliant hum—the kinetic reservoir fully charged and ready to erupt. Without hesitation, she lunged, striking down on Noire with a force that cracked the air.

  Noire met the blow with a cross block of her twin rapiers. The clash rang through the chamber like a bell tolling for war.

  She remained calm—but there was no longer anything unserious about her expression.

  Leiger’s crimson eye burned. Rage and adrenaline surged through her veins as she pressed in, teeth bared. Her muscles screamed, but she didn’t falter. She snarled through her breath:

  “Don’t you ever compare me to my father, Valcrest.”

  She surged into a Kinetic Rush—channeling the energy not in one grand release, but in subtle pulses. Each swing of her long stick was powered by a fraction of the stored energy, a masterclass in control and devastation. The long stick danced like a serpent, striking with brutal precision and relentless speed.

  This time, she was the ruthless one.

  Strike after strike rained down on Noire, each one meant not just to defeat—but to hurt. Leiger’s form was honed and deadly, her movements a blur of purpose. She gritted her teeth through the pain, her fatigue, her doubt. All drowned beneath the red tide of fury.

  Noire held her ground, but the rhythm shifted. The proud Valcrest began to yield step by step, driven backward by Leiger’s raw force and sharpened technique.

  Leiger’s strikes roared like thunderclaps, and still—still—Noire stood.

  Her rapiers crossed and caught the blow meant to break through her guard, her boots skidding across the ground from the sheer impact. Dust rose around them in spirals. Leiger didn’t relent.

  “You think I’m his failure?”

  Another strike—an overhead slam redirected just in time by Noire’s twisting block.

  “You think I’m just his stain on the uniform?”

  She brought her long stick around in a fluid spin, forcing Noire to duck low, then followed with a sweeping strike aimed at her flank.

  “I earned this rank in blood and bone, not backdoor handshakes!”

  Noire’s eyes narrowed, jaw clenched, body leaning into each parry as her muscles screamed. Leiger’s every swing vibrated with kinetic force—but Noire’s balance, though rocked, refused to break.

  “You, with your golden insignia and your cold smirks—”

  A jab at the throat, expertly deflected by Noire’s hilt.

  “—you never saw me. Never thought I could rise!”

  Another surge of power—Leiger’s stick split the air with a howl. Noire blocked high, but her knees buckled slightly, the energy nearly knocking her down.

  “You want to talk about pride? I have nothing else!”

  Leiger twisted, crouched low, and unleashed a rapid flurry—one, two, three strikes in rhythm, pushing Noire back step by step. The echoes rang down the ruined hall like war drums.

  “I carry a name you all spit on!”

  Another burst of kinetic backlash flared out from the weapon.

  “I built myself from that filth you called shame!”

  Noire grimaced, her arms trembling from the strain, but she met Leiger’s fury with cold resilience. Her form never crumbled, not fully—her defense adapted. Weakened, yes. Strained to the edge, yes. But still standing.

  The two locked weapons for a moment—faces inches apart. Leiger’s crimson eye burned. Noire’s was sharp, unreadable, yet slightly widened.

  “Don’t you dare compare me to him again…” Leiger growled low, breath labored.

  “…or I’ll show you exactly what makes me Leiger Rosewood.”

  Their weapons crackled from the energy between them.

  A standoff—fury against discipline. Rage against poise. Two legacies crashing into one another.

  And neither blinking.

  With a sudden, commanding voice that cut through the charged air, Noire snapped,

  “Enough.”

  Her dual rapiers—Lament and Verdict—lashed outward in a perfect cross-parry, slamming Leiger back.

  Leiger staggered, gripping her long stick as her body finally began betraying her. The surge of adrenaline that had fueled her assault now drained like a broken siphon. Muscles cramped. Her arms trembled. Breaths came like she had forgotten how to take them. Sweat poured down her face like rain. Her vision blurred. Every nerve screamed from the backlash of reckless kinetic overload.

  And yet, Noire stood untouched—barely a sheen of sweat on her brow.

  “Done with your tantrum?” she said coolly.

  Leiger couldn’t lift her head at first. Not under that gaze. Not as Noire slowly rubbed the flat of Lament against Verdict, a rasping scrape echoing in the chamber. The golden glow of the blades ignited brighter—then warped.

  A searing, discordant tone invaded Leiger’s eardrums like a siren from hell. She knew that sound.

  Perception Warp.

  Even now—on the brink of collapse—her pride wouldn’t let her fall.

  “Eight,” she growled.

  Her multi-tool clicked, hissed, and shifted—first to its core form, then extending into a long sword once more. It burned like white-hot coal in her hands, the heat blistering her skin. She clenched tighter.

  Across from her, Noire didn’t move. She didn’t need to.

  She raised Lament in a mock salute, her voice slicing like a blade:

  “Come again, Rosewood. I’ll show you what your brute-force ambition amounts to.”

  Leiger roared.

  The sword came down in a furious arc—and cleaved Noire in half.

  Or so she thought.

  It was an illusion. A hallucination spawned from her delayed perception. Noire had already sidestepped.

  And now she was circling.

  Leiger turned, sword dragging behind her, and swung again—sluggish, desperate. Her instincts told her to strike where Noire had been—but she was always behind. Two seconds too late. A ghost chasing shadows.

  For each failed strike, Noire retaliated—light but punishing blows.

  A kick to her ribs.

  A hilt strike to the temple.

  Another to the back of her knee.

  Leiger’s legs buckled. She dropped to one knee, using her long sword to stay upright, breath ragged, chest heaving like a drowning woman. Her body was a storm of fire and agony.

  Her lip split as she bit down to keep from screaming.

  Noire didn’t even flinch.

  She stood there like judgment incarnate, rapiers gleaming, voice cold as winter steel.

  “You hate being compared to your father,” she said.

  “But here you are. Letting ambition break your body. The same blind drive that ruined him.”

  Noire began walking forward—measured steps, relentless, almost solemn.

  “The difference? Your self-destruction is private. His cost lives. One of them was important to me. Someone who’s gone because of him.”

  Leiger’s head jerked up at that—rage flickering in her bloodshot eyes.

  “Seven!” she barked.

  She tried to activate the Shield module—but her multi-tool sparked, overheated, and refused to respond.

  All she had left was her long sword. She gripped it with both hands, forcing her scorched arms to obey.

  Noire lunged.

  Lament came down like a sentence, her swing so precise it hummed. Leiger raised her blade just in time to block it—but that was the trap.

  Verdict shimmered in Noire’s other hand, charged with raw Horizon energy—and phased clean through Leiger’s guard.

  It plunged into her throat, stopping just shy of tearing through flesh.

  Noire leaned in, her eyes inches from Leiger’s as the glow of Verdict seared against skin.

  “It’s over, Rosewood.”

  As Leiger and Noire locked eyes—Verdict still humming against her throat—a third voice cut through the tension like a bullet through glass.

  “Hey there strong and independent ladies!”

  Noire turned her head sharply. Leaning in the doorway was none other than Kieran “Deadeye” Vale, arms crossed, a lopsided grin stretched across his face like he’d just walked into a tavern brawl he wanted to lose.

  “Commander Vex told me to tell you two that,” he added with a shrug, eyes flicking between them.

  “the briefing is going to start very soon and I suppose I got in time before this tough love gets real serious.”

  Noire exhaled sharply. Not a laugh. Not quite a sigh. Just annoyance.

  With graceful cruelty, she withdrew Verdict from Leiger’s throat—its Phase Strike hum fading like a dying echo. Then she pressed Lament down against Leiger’s longsword, forcing her off-balance before striding toward the exit.

  “What a waste of time and energy,” she muttered without looking back.

  The Sentinels lining the hall stiffened, parting instinctively. Not one dared to meet her eyes. She passed them like a specter, silent and terrifying.

  Once the room exhaled again, Kieran rushed to Leiger’s side.

  “Hey there comrade…”

  He crouched, immediately bracing her arm, checking her balance.

  “You good?”

  She didn’t answer. Just groaned, barely breathing through the pain as she dragged herself upright with sheer force of will.

  “Heh, stubborn and tough as usual,” Kieran muttered under his breath—but not without a flicker of a grin.

  Leiger didn’t even glance at him. She just turned away—heading for the opposite exit, her limbs trembling but unbroken.

  Kieran watched her go. His smirk faded.

  Then, quieter:

  “I hope you are okay comrade.”

  She walked, limping, body trembling with every step. The Sentinels watched her pass. They said nothing. But this time… their silence held something different.

  Worry. Respect. Unease.

  She had fought a Commander—and though she lost, she lasted.

  No one dared to mock that.

  Minutes later, Leiger stumbled into the station’s nearest bathroom. She barely made it to the sink before her body lurched forward and—

  Violent retching.

  Sour bile filled her throat. The acidic taste clawed at her mouth, burned her nose, made her eyes sting.

  She clung to the edge of the sink and finally looked up.

  Her reflection stared back—wild hair, blood on her lip, sweat-soaked skin, and the hollow eyes of someone pushed past the brink.

  She tried to fix her hair with one trembling hand. It was almost comical.

  And then—his voice slithered into her mind.

  Smooth. Mocking. Familiar.

  “Tsk. Pathetic,” came Folgren’s voice, echoing like a whisper in her skull.

  “I expected more from a fallen noble with pride as swollen as yours, Sentinel.”

  Leiger snapped.

  “SHUT UP!” she screamed—at herself, at him, at the mirror—

  And punched.

  Glass shattered, splintered shards raining down like ice. Blood bloomed across her knuckles, but she didn’t care. Not about the pain. Not about the mess.

  She leaned over the sink again, panting—jaw clenched, eyes burning.

  She was not done yet.

  [30 Minutes Ago – Sector 7-S: On Route to the Rift]

  The Wraithrunner tore across the cracked terrain like a phantom on steel lungs—its engines humming with Arcane-fed gravitic force, kicking up a storm of dirt and rust. No wheels, no mercy, just blistering velocity. It looked like hell warmed over: reinforced plating scuffed from years of near-death sprints, hastily welded Abyssal charms dangling uselessly from the frame, and the etched names of fallen Sentinels crawling across its flanks like a whispered memorial.

  Elite Operative Darius “Graylock” Henshaw gripped the handlebars in silence, eyes deadlocked on the warping horizon. The land ahead was already starting to bleed—veins of Abyss corruption glowing faint violet, the factory ruins silhouetted like a broken tooth against the sky.

  Wrapped snugly around his back was Commander Selene Veyne, all curves and chaos, clinging to him like they were in a romance holo instead of a race toward death.

  “Ahh~ this is so romantic,” she purred against the wind, voice smooth despite the roar. “We should do this more often.”

  Graylock sighed. “Selene… I really wish you’d act like a commander sometimes.”

  “Aww, can’t a lady enjoy a ride with such a tall, serious man? Keep being that hot and I might assign you some—let’s say—‘OT’ in my quarters tonight.” She winked, even though he couldn’t see it. He could feel it.

  Graylock didn’t flinch. “I hope an Abyssal crawler bites my head off.”

  Selene just laughed, delighted. “Mmm. Mood.”

  As the terrain warped around them, the Rift came into full view—a spiraling fracture bleeding Arcane storms into the sky. Trees had twisted into blackened spires. Buildings leaned wrong, shadows bending against the light.

  And then came the screams.

  They heard her before they saw her.

  “YOU MAGGOT-CHEWING SACKS OF CANCER—BRING IT ON!”

  A blast shook the air. Another one followed.

  Elite Operative Eliza “Overlord” Kane was holding the line like a one-woman hurricane. Her Havoc Cannon spat fire and steel as she stood above a mess of ruptured crawler bodies and twisted Abyssal flora. Two exhausted Operatives flanked her, barely fending off mutated wildlife with cracked Arcane blades from their Arcane multi-tool.

  Behind them, another Sentinel lay slumped against rubble, clutching a stump where his arm used to be. No time to scream. No time to treat. Just survival.

  Graylock didn’t hesitate.

  “Hold tight,” he muttered.

  He gunned the Wraithrunner forward and drifted to a sudden halt just behind the ruins—wheels be damned. The force of it kicked up a storm of dust, and when it cleared, Graylock stepped off like a war-forged sentinel, eyes burning beneath his visor.

  Selene hopped off behind him, expression somewhat serious now and she rush to treat the fallen Operative.

  Eliza glanced their way, breathing heavy, one eye twitching in pure, adrenalized wrath. “About goddamn time, Graylock! These bastards keep coming out like pissed off beehive!”

  Graylock cracked his neck.

  “Then we vaporize them,” he growled, drawing the Twin Judicators from his hips.

  “Till only what left of them is their ashes.”

  Graylock stood before the oncoming swarm—face unreadable, stance unshakable.

  He raised both arms, his heavy coat parting as the Twin Judicators locked into his hands with a metallic clunk. The barrels hummed with buried thunder.

  “Linefire Mode.”

  His voice was calm—almost tired—but it carried the weight of a man who’d ended wars with less.

  The railguns responded instantly, glowing with cold Arcane light. Blue veins of energy surged down the chambers, pulsing like the heartbeat of some forgotten god. Each pulse whispered promise: precision, power, punishment.

  The abyssal swarm shrieked in reply.

  Graylock exhaled.

  “Let’s even the odds.”

  He opened fire.

  And the wasteland lit up in disciplined fury.

  Briefing Before the War.”