Thea’s eyes were practically locked onto the Luminous White gem at the top-left corner of the Inheritance Star.

  Something about the color just felt right. Like it belonged to her, like an inherent part of her being already knew—had always known—that this was her Inheritance.

  The Runepriest, however, didn’t pause for her moment of introspection, continuing his explanation with the same steady, methodical pace.

  “Veritas Psykers, like yourself, excel in a few particular areas,” he said. “One of which is information gathering and verification. This is primarily what Veritas Psykers do in the UHF Marines; they are more often than not members of the command staff, as their ability to determine whether intel is accurate or not, given the right Powers, is second to none.”

  He gestured slightly as he spoke, reinforcing his points with the slightest of motions. “When it comes to raw information gathering, Veritas Psykers also make for excellent scouts—as you have already proven yourself and have likely begun to realize. The ability to see through stealth, illusions, and all manner of trickery makes you exceedingly good at spotting critical infrastructure, high-value targets, and hidden enemy positions that even the best Psykers or Stealth Generators would struggle to conceal.”

  Thea nodded along. She had recognized this niche for herself already.

  Especially in the early days of the Assessment, her [Eyes of the Void] had been invaluable for exactly this purpose. Even before she had fully understood her own abilities, they had given her an edge that no one else in Alpha Squad had possessed.

  “Secondly,” the Runepriest continued, “Veritas is also the one Inheritance that grants the most impactful form of the Short-Term Precognition Path. Another thing you have undoubtedly realized yourself already.”

  Once more, Thea nodded, her focus sharpening as the Runepriest conjured a translucent screen between them, its surface flickering with faint traces of shifting symbols.

  “When it comes to Inheritances, Paths, and their respective Powers, you’ll find that the initial combination always aligns naturally with the Inheritance itself. A Perditio Psyker will almost always develop an offensive, material Path, with a corresponding Power suited for direct-damage. Meanwhile, an Obscuritas Psyker will typically manifest Paths tied to Illusions, Stealth, or in short: Anything Immaterial. Veritas, then, is highly likely to result in something like Precognition, Divination, or any number of information-based Paths and their respective Power portfolios.”

  Thea’s brows knitted together.

  She had heard the terms Paths and Powers repeatedly by now, but in her mind, she had lumped them together under a single definition—the thing that makes stuff happen.

  Essentially a term similar to saying “Abilities” within the Allbright System.

  But the Runepriest’s careful distinction in his wording made it clear there was more to it. The way he spoke, as if the difference was fundamental rather than semantic, left a nagging gap in her understanding.

  “What’s the difference between a Path and a Power, exactly?” she asked quickly, cutting in before the Runepriest could steamroll past her growing questions with his relentless explanations once again.

  The Runepriest paused, considering her question.

  His gaze drifted slightly as if weighing different ways to frame his response. Then, with a satisfied nod, he seemed to settle on something, the corners of his mouth curling into a knowing grin.

  He turned back to the flickering screen he had conjured, and with a casual flick of his fingers, the shifting symbols faded, replaced by an image Thea had not expected in the slightest.

  There, glowing softly in the dim light, was the unmistakable title screen of Krillson’s Path.

  The stylized logo, the faint hum of its familiar theme song—everything about it instantly pulled her back to the Golden Age Arcade. She had played Krillson’s Path countless times, usually in the gaps between Ashes of Centuries tournaments.

  It was a character-focused RPG, one that boasted vast and intricate customization options, rewarding players who dared to experiment. She had spent hours refining different builds, testing unique ability combinations, and pushing the limits of what was possible within the game’s deep systems.

  She looked at the Runepriest in stunned disbelief.

  His grin widened at her reaction, eyes gleaming with amusement. “Ah, so you do know it. Good. I wasn’t entirely sure, considering your profile only directly mentions Ashes of Centuries as your main area of expertise. But I figured you’d have played this one too.”

  He winked.

  Before Thea could even begin to process why he was showing her this, he continued, his voice carrying an unmistakable hint of mischief. “You see, every game you’ve ever played? Almost assuredly created by Terra itself.”

  Thea blinked, caught off guard. “What?”

  He chuckled. “Think about it. All the familiar terms—Classes, Abilities, Attributes, Stats—they weren’t just random game mechanics. They were deliberately named that way after the advent of the System. It was all by design, a way to prepare the Unintegrated masses for what is coming. To make sure that when the galaxy-wide Integration happens, it won’t be as much of a culture shock.”

  Thea’s thoughts ground to a halt.

  She had never once questioned why the terminology inside the System felt so natural, why it had mirrored the mechanics of the games she had played so closely. She had assumed it was just a coincidence, or perhaps some universal logic; or even more honestly: She hadn’t thought about the connection at all.

  But now that she thought about it—really thought about it—it made far too much sense.

  Terra had trained her—all of them.

  Conditioned entire generations of people to instinctively grasp the System’s fundamentals without even realizing it.

  She hadn’t needed to be taught how Stats worked, or what leveling up meant, what the difference between a Passive or an Active Ability was or why Ability synergies were important in the first place. She had understood it immediately, simply because she had already spent years playing games like Krillson’s Path in the Golden Age Arcade.

  The realization flashed through her, sending a strange, weightless sensation through her chest, like she was about to faint.

  She exhaled, slowly.

  “…That’s insane,” she muttered. But even as she said it, she couldn’t deny the sheer genius of it all.

  The Runepriest let out a low chuckle. “Oh, it wasn’t just the games, Thea. Terra didn’t stop there.”

  He leaned forward slightly, watching her with the knowing gaze of someone who had seen this realization dawn on many before her. “The Galactic Standard language itself was adjusted to fit the System’s terminology. You think it was coincidence that so many words lined up perfectly with System mechanics?”

  He shook his head. “Not a chance.”

  Thea felt her pulse quicken.

  “This wasn’t something done overnight either, of course,” he continued, his voice almost casual, as if he weren’t actively shattering the foundations of her understanding. “For nearly a thousand years, Terra has been engineering the very way people speak and think—news channels, advertisements, even product descriptions in stores. Everything has been carefully curated to provide as much pre-existing context for the System as possible, long before anyone even knew the System existed.”

  The words hit her like a hammer to the skull, her thoughts tearing through memories at breakneck speed.

  She had watched news reports about planetary conflicts, calling them Missions instead of military operations. Mission Completed. Mission Failed. Mission Parameters.

  She had read product descriptions that listed Attributes—strength improvers, finesse enhancements, vitality boosts, stamina recovery—always in a way that, now in hindsight, mirrored the System’s exact terminology.

  She had seen countless advertisements that referenced Classes of people—engineers, medics, security officers—slotting them neatly into predefined roles, as if they weren’t just careers but System-designated paths.

  It hadn’t been coincidence.

  It had never been coincidence.

  The sheer scale of it all was mind blowing.

  She had spent her entire life beneath an invisible web of propaganda, its threads so seamlessly woven into everyday existence that no one had questioned it. The indoctrination hadn’t been loud or forceful. No speakers that blared propaganda, no gatherings of people that tried to tell you what to think—it had been subtle, insidious and absolutely everywhere.

  And yet… a part of her, buried beneath the horror of realizing just how little control over it all she had ever truly possessed, couldn’t help but be impressed.

  Terra had thought this far ahead.

  Had planned, prepared, and executed an operation spanning thousands of planets, trillions upon trillions of people. The sheer logistical coordination required was beyond anything she could even comprehend. They had guided entire civilizations to expect the System’s arrival—so that when it finally came, no one would reject it.

  She swallowed hard, her breath shallow, her mind spiraling into endless questions about how much of her life had ever truly been hers.

  The Runepriest, however, had the patience of someone who had seen this existential breakdown play out before. He let her sit with the revelation, but he hadn’t been idle.

  With a flick of his hand, the screen shifted again.

  Thea blinked, her focus snapping to the new image.

  It was the character customization screen from Krillson’s Path.

  For a moment, the storm of thoughts raging in her mind settled.

  The familiar layout—the adjustable sliders, the branching ability selections, the neatly organized stats—felt like an anchor, something solid in the midst of everything unraveling around her. She had spent hours on this screen before, fine-tuning characters, optimizing builds, experimenting with different combinations.

  It was familiar. It was understandable.

  The Runepriest smirked, clearly pleased by her reaction. “To answer your question, I will simply use Terra’s own explanation—one they have so thoughtfully prepared for me.”

  His tone carried a hint of dry amusement. “Paths are like Ability Trees.”

  With a flick of his wrist, the image shifted, zooming in on one of the Ability Trees from the game. Thea immediately recognized it—the Fire Tree for the Mage Class.

  Bright, glowing nodes branched out across the interface, each representing a different ability, passive or active, that could be unlocked through progression. She remembered how the abilities built on each other, requiring careful planning if a player wanted to maximize their potential.

  She was already piecing together where he was going with this, but she remained quiet, waiting to see if there was still something surprising in his explanation.

  “A Path determines the general types of Powers you will be granted,” the Runepriest continued, gesturing toward the screen. “Much like an Ability Tree determines the general type of ability you will unlock in this game. Every Mage can cast spells, but only Fire Mages can use something like a Fireball.”

  He tapped a glowing icon labeled Fireball for emphasis before looking back at her. “In Psychic terms, the ‘Fire’ of Fire Mage would be the Path, while the ‘Fireball’ would be the Power.”

  Thea’s brow furrowed slightly, absorbing the comparison.

  “So,” he continued, “when identifying a Psyker, you would typically describe them as an ‘Inheritance Path Psyker’ when writing a report—provided you can determine their actual Inheritance and Path.” His grin widened as if he found something particularly amusing.

  Then he chuckled, shaking his head. “Of course, at higher Psyker grades, this method becomes pretty unusable. You can’t exactly write a report on someone who has five Paths—or ten.”

  He gave her a pointed look. “That would be quite the mouthful, don’t you think?”

  His tone was playful, but the underlying message was clear. At a certain level, Psykers became unclassifiable. Too many variables, too many overlapping abilities. Exactly like high-end characters in Krillson’s Path. Players had usually ended up simply referring to them as their main type; in Psychic terms, the Inheritance, if she had to guess.

  Thea exhaled slowly, her fingers twitching slightly as she resisted the urge to instinctively navigate the menu, as if she were really back at the arcade.

  The comparison was unnervingly effective. She understood exactly what he meant.

  “So I’d be a Veritas Short-Term Precognition Psyker in other people’s reports?” Thea asked, wanting to make sure she had understood his words correctly.

  The Runepriest nodded sagely, a satisfied smile settling on his face. “Absolutely correct.”

  With a simple wave of his hand, the glowing image on the screen flickered and vanished, dissolving into nothing. Then, without missing a beat, he continued, “With that said, let’s return to the actual topic at hand: Veritas. As I was saying earlier, Veritas has the most immediately useful and impactful form of the Short-Term Precognition Path out there.”

  Thea blinked a few times, her mind still half-caught on the previous discussion. The abrupt shift in topic left her momentarily off balance, but she quickly refocused.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

  ‘Right. We were talking about this before.’

  “This is due to the nature of Veritas itself,” the Runepriest explained. “As I mentioned, Veritas represents the ultimate Truth of the Void. When it comes to precognition, this makes it especially powerful—because the Void is a plane without Time. The very concept of Time, as in the causality of successive events, simply does not exist within it.”

  He raised both hands in a placating gesture, his tired smile carrying the unmistakable weight of someone who had seen far too many people break their minds over this concept.

  “Please, don’t think about this too hard at this stage of your career, Thea. Many scholars—ones far, far older and more knowledgeable than you—have driven themselves mad trying to make sense of how the Void can possibly exist without something as fundamental as Time. It’s not something you need to worry about right now.”

  Thea nodded quickly, not needing any further encouragement.

  She had zero intention of trying to wrap her mind around something as ludicrous as a plane existing without Time. That was the kind of nonsense Karania would probably latch onto with excitement—not her.

  The Runepriest chuckled at her quick agreement. “Good. Since the Void does not have Time, precognition—true precognition—is exceptionally powerful when granted by it. And that, in the end, is what we Psykers are: We channel the Powers of the Void into our universe. If the Void does not have Time, then we can simply look at events it has already recorded as having happened, and act accordingly, as those events might not have happened in our universe yet.”

  He let that sink in before continuing. “With Veritas as your lens into this chaotic mess of existence, you will only ever see one future—the True future, as the Void perceives it at that moment.”

  The screen between them shifted again, this time displaying a simple, straight line, crisp and unbroken.

  “For Veritas precogs like yourself, your precognition functions like this line,” the Runepriest explained, gesturing toward the image. “You are on the left side of it, and it shows you whatever is on the right—however many seconds or minutes into the future your strength as a Psyker allows. The further you see, the harder it becomes. Generally speaking, Short-Term Precognition focuses on futures in the seconds range, while seeing even a few minutes ahead is exceptionally difficult.”

  With another flick of his hand, the image on the screen changed.

  The single, unwavering line fractured into nearly a dozen different paths, each branching away in separate directions. Each line bore a different hue—colours Thea was all too familiar with by now: The colours of the twelve Inheritances.

  “This,” the Runepriest continued, “is what we Aurae Psykers would see if we used the same Power from the Short-Term Precognition Path that you are on.” He leaned back slightly, arms crossing as he regarded the chaotic tangle of possibilities before them. “Instead of one guaranteed, true future that we can act upon immediately, we are greeted with twelve. One for each Inheritance, marked by its respective hue as we observe it.

  “We don’t know which of these futures will actually happen,” he elaborated, “because even the Veritas-hued future among them isn’t truly the same as what a Veritas Psyker like yourself would see. It’s merely tinged in Veritas’ colour—meaning it’s the most likely to be the real future. But it is not guaranteed.”

  Thea frowned, feeling the first hints of frustration creep in. The concept wasn’t quite landing the way she had hoped. It felt off—like she was missing something fundamental.

  The Runepriest must have sensed her hesitation because, rather than pressing forward, he pivoted. “Let’s simplify. Think of it like probabilities—not absolute truths, but likelihoods.”

  He motioned to the screen again, pointing at different coloured lines. “These are predictions based on which Inheritance’s influence is the strongest at that moment. If Perditio’s hue dominates, it means destruction is the most probable outcome. Mutatio shows a future where things shift and change the most. Nihilus…”

  He smirked dryly. “Well, Nihilus shows the path closest to entropy.”

  That explanation landed a little better. But Thea still wasn’t sure if she completely got it.

  The Runepriest shrugged, as if conceding the point before she could even question further.

  “It’s not a particularly useful Inheritance for precognition-based Paths, I must admit. An Aurae Short-Term Precognition Psyker would rarely get any real benefit from their Inheritance for this kind of Power.”

  He exhaled in mild amusement. “What’s the point of looking into the future, only to see different versions of what probably won’t happen anyway? It does have its uses, of course, but they’re so specialized and situational that explaining them right now wouldn’t really be worth it.”

  Thea simply nodded in agreement. There was no point arguing.

  Even though the topic was interesting, she was already struggling to wrap her head around the basic interaction between Aurae and precognition.

  She doubted she’d gain anything from diving into the advanced applications of it just yet. Maybe later—when she wasn’t already trying to hold together a dozen other mind-breaking revelations at once.

  “What matters,” the Runepriest continued, his tone firm, “is that you understand how Veritas functions. It always operates based on the Truth as the Void perceives it. For precognition, this Truth is the single future the Void knows will happen—if nothing else influences the outcome. That’s what you get to see as a Veritas precog.”

  He let the words sink in, hammering the point home.

  “This Truth of the Void, however,” he added, “can be difficult to understand—even for experienced Psykers. The Void has a habit of breaking things down into their most fundamental aspects. It doesn’t deal in interpretation, only in what is. For precognition, that’s simple enough—the one future that will unfold. But for something like a Fireball…”

  He trailed off meaningfully, letting the thought linger before his smirk widened.

  “So tell me, Thea,” he said, eyes gleaming with amusement, “what is the fundamental, universal Truth of fire as the Void sees it? How would a Veritas Fireball look and behave?”

  Realization struck her like a jolt of electricity. ‘So that’s where he was going with this…!’

  She had been wondering why he had gone off on such a massive tangent instead of just showing the last Fireball and explaining it after the fact, like he had done with all the others before.

  But now, it all clicked into place.

  He wasn’t just explaining the Veritas-influenced Fireball—he was leading her toward understanding why the Fireball looked and functioned the way it did; how Veritas, as an Inheritance as a whole, would influence all Powers, not just the Fireball one.

  Thea cupped her chin instinctively as she thought, unconsciously mirroring the Runepriest’s own posture whenever he was deep in thought.

  ‘What is the fundamental Truth of fire…?’

  She frowned, her thoughts working hard to break the concept down step by step.

  ‘Fire is… hot?’

  That much was obvious, so it didn’t feel like the right answer.

  ‘It burns things.’

  That felt slightly closer—fire destroyed, consumed, changed whatever it touched. But that still seemed too surface-level.

  She tried to think through what she knew about fire from a scientific standpoint, rudimentary as her understanding was. James had gotten her quite a few books on topics such as physics and chemistry, but they were foundational at best.

  Enough to understand how the universe worked in theory, at a basic-level, but nothing more.

  ‘Fire needs fuel, heat, and oxygen. It’s a chemical reaction, right? A process where material breaks down and releases energy.’

  Her fingers tapped idly against her chin. ‘But what does that mean on a fundamental level?’

  The Void didn’t deal in abstract definitions. It saw things for what they were.

  She exhaled slowly, narrowing it down further.

  ‘Fire takes something and changes it. Burns it. Destroys it. Alters its properties completely, turning wood to ash, metal to slag, flesh to char. Even if it doesn’t consume something entirely, it still transforms whatever it touches, somehow…’

  That had to be the answer.

  She looked up, expression firming as she finally spoke. “The fundamental truth of fire is probably that it burns things and transforms them. That it turns them to ash or otherwise changes their properties completely.”

  The Runepriest’s grin widened.

  He let out a low chuckle, shaking his head slightly. “Not bad. Not bad at all.”

  His gaze held something close to approval. “You actually got fairly close on the first try, I’m impressed.”

  That surprised her.

  She had not expected to get anywhere close to what the Runepriest would like to hear, but the fact that she did, caused a bout of warmth to rise in her chest.

  “Your answer isn’t exactly wrong,” he clarified. “But it’s clear you don’t quite have the foundational understanding of physics and chemistry to really get all the way there. And that’s the important part. Getting most of the way there is simply not enough for a Veritas Psyker.”

  Thea felt a flicker of frustration at that.

  But before she could dwell on it, the Runepriest’s tone shifted.

  The amusement was gone.

  His voice turned serious—commanding.

  “You will fix that,” he said firmly. “You will use some of the Skill Vouchers you earned from the Awards Ceremony and put them into the basic courses for Chemistry, Physics, Biology, and Mathematics, for starters.”

  Thea blinked, caught off guard by the abrupt, downright forceful and uncharacteristic order.

  “Wait, all of them?”

  “All of them,” he repeated with a nod. “These subjects will become infinitely more important for you as a Veritas Psyker than for anyone else. You can’t afford to simply guess at the Truth of things. You need to know them.”

  His eyes sharpened, the weight of his words pressing down on her. “The Void isn’t going to hold your hand. If you use a Power and channel it through your Inheritance, the Void will bend it fully and completely into what it understands as the foundational Truth of whatever it is you’re manipulating.”

  His expression darkened slightly. “Having a rough idea of what will happen? That’s not good enough. You need to fully understand the most basic, fundamental nature of the universal laws that apply to everything—because only then will you be able to predict how Veritas will shape your Powers.”

  Thea’s eyebrows were raised all the way by now.

  This was… a lot to take in.

  She had expected Veritas to be powerful, after the Runepriest had first said so.

  She had expected it to be difficult, as anything Psychic-related seemed to be.

  But she hadn’t realized that understanding the entire nature of reality itself, and the laws that governed it, would be a requirement.

  “I understand that this is overwhelming,” the Runepriest said, breaking through her spiraling thoughts. “But remember that this is an iterative process. And don’t just see it as a detriment, either.”

  His voice shifted, losing some of its edge, though the intensity remained. “Remember, when it comes to raw power, Veritas is the strongest Inheritance there is. And part of that strength comes from the fact that it strips away everything unnecessary.”

  His fingers flicked, conjuring a small flame above his palm. “Take fire, for example. Normal fire wastes energy on things like flickering, embers, smoke. Frivolous things. But when Veritas breaks it down to its purest, fundamental Truth, all of that is discarded. Instead of wasting energy on unnecessary aspects, it pumps everything into the most fundamental part of what makes fire… fire.”

  He let the flame vanish, then held up a single finger.

  “Veritas is singular in nature,” he said. “But that singularity—that lack of versatility—is what makes it shine in its application. In the Psychic-world, restrictions always increase efficiency and efficacy.”

  He leaned forward slightly, his gaze locking onto hers. “That’s why you need to understand exactly where those restrictions will leave your Powers. Because only then will you be able to truly make use of Veritas to its fullest.”

  And then, finally, his face split into a wide grin. His right hand lifted, palm-side up, and Thea’s eyes snapped toward the space just above it, anticipation surging through her.

  ‘Finally!’

  She had been waiting for this moment, eager to see what kind of Fireball her own Inheritance would create since this whole session had started.

  “The fundamental Truth of fire, Thea,” the Runepriest said, his voice steady, “is combustion. The chemical, exothermic redox reaction between a fuel source and an oxidant.”

  His fingers curled slightly, as if framing something unseen. “When applied to the Fireball Power, it strips away everything else—heat, flickering flames, unnecessary radiation—leaving behind only the purest form of combustion itself.”

  With those words, a tiny, luminous-white sphere appeared above his palm.

  It was unlike any Fireball Thea had ever seen.

  Just as the Runepriest had said, there was no flickering flame, no movement, no heat radiating from it at all. It simply was—a perfect, motionless speck of pure whiteness, hovering above his hand like a fragment of something impossibly precise.

  It didn’t behave like fire. It didn’t look like fire.

  And yet, deep down, something inside of her knew—this was fire in its truest form.

  The Runepriest gave no further explanation.

  With a flick of his fingers, the perfect sphere of luminous white shot forward. It moved in a perfectly straight line, unwavering, cutting through the air with absolute precision.

  There was no flicker, no drift, no wasted motion.

  Then, when it arrived at the target area, thirty metres into the clearing, it “detonated”.

  But there was no detonation in the typical sense; no explosion, no outward shockwave.

  Instead, the sphere split apart, unfolding into a multi-pronged star, scattering luminous-white specks in every direction, like a laser-grenade.

  Each fragment was barely the size of a fingernail.

  And yet, wherever one landed, instant combustion occurred.

  The precise point of impact was subjected to what amounted to infinite heat, causing an immediate and total reaction. There was no smoldering, no slow burning—only pure, instantaneous combustion at the moment of contact.

  Where a white speck struck bark, the wood did not ignite—it simply reacted.

  The precise impact site forced the oxygen in the air to bond instantly with the organic material, reducing it to nothing but drifting ash in the span of a heartbeat. The surrounding bark, though untouched by the initial speck, self-immolated from the overwhelming residual heat of the practically infinite-temperature exothermic redox, causing the entire tree to burst into flames from the inside out in a breath’s time.

  Where a speck landed in the dirt, the organic matter in the soil incinerated instantly, leaving behind only lifeless, blackened earth. The surrounding ground, reacting to the sheer proximity of the combustion, hardened and cracked, heat searing away all remaining moisture, leaving it brittle as ancient stone in several metres radius.

  Where a speck met solid rock, the stone vaporized at the exact point of contact.

  Not cracked, not melted—gone.

  The reaction was so absolute that it left behind a smooth, hollowed-out cavity, the edges molten and bubbling from the leftover heat. Nearby stones, untouched by the initial impact, still fractured violently, their surfaces shattering as the heat of the reaction rippled outward, causing secondary detonations as trapped air and moisture inside them instantly expanded past their breaking point.

  Then, Thea’s eyes snapped to the human targets.

  Her eyes widened at what she saw.

  The Stellar Republic soldiers did not burn.

  They simply did not have time to do so, let alone scream.

  Where a white speck struck armor, the material ceased to exist—metal vaporized into smoke and ash in an instant, leaving nothing but gaping, molten holes where plating had once been.

  Where a speck touched flesh, there was no charring, no slow sear—there was instant combustion and ash. The exact point of impact detonated, the flesh reacting to the sheer infinite heat, reducing to light and heat in the span of a heartbeat.

  There was no corpse left behind—only the air-distorted shimmer of residual energy.

  And then came the chain reactions.

  The surrounding bodies, ground and terrain all self-ignited around the areas where the white specks landed, not from direct impacts themselves, but from proximity to the infinite heat that those impacts caused.

  The air itself distorted, flash-heating everything in its vicinity into a searing conflagration.

  Soldiers who had not been hit by the initial impact burst into flames as the heat abruptly appeared whenever a white speck touched anything nearby. Their armor, meant to withstand extreme temperatures, became a death trap, superheating instantly, liquefying into glowing slag that fused with their bodies before they even had a chance to move.

  Their helmets, sealed and pressurized, did not protect them either.

  Instead, the oxygen inside their breathing systems became fuel for the redox reactions initiated by the white specks. Their heads erupted from within, the liquid in their blood and tissue flash boiling, reducing skulls to ash and leaving only molten, collapsed visors spilling liquefied, ashy remnants onto the scorched ground.

  Some soldiers tried to run, just as the Fireball detonated. It didn’t matter.

  Even those several meters away weren’t spared.

  The sheer proximity to the combustion sites was enough.

  The heat bled into their bodies, boiling blood in their veins before they could take another step. Their lungs collapsed, oxygen in their chests superheating past survivable limits. The moment their bodies reached the self-combustion threshold from the heat around them, they detonated, igniting into white-hot pillars of flame before collapsing into nothing.

  And all the while, where the Luminous White specks struck, nothing remained.

  No bodies. No wreckage. No lingering embers.

  Only erased space, as if the battlefield had been scoured clean of their very existence.

  It wasn’t fire. Yet it also was.

  Fire in its purest form: Combustion—absolute, irrevocable, infinitely reactive.

  And Thea could only stare…

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