On the iron floor of the medical wing in Sector Zero, a boy knelt in silence.

  Vale’s body was drenched in his own blood. It clung to his armor, soaked into the seams of leather and metal alike, leaving almost no surface untouched. His entire frame trembled violently, muscles spasming as shock battled against survival. Faint blue streaks pulsed beneath his skin in irregular intervals, branching like lightning beneath flesh, evidence of his metallic arm working relentlessly, repairing torn vessels, forcing his body to remain alive. At the same time, his leather armor responded in kind, its sigils faintly glowing as it accelerated regeneration again and again, refusing to allow its wearer to die.

  Medical staff rushed through the wing in controlled panic. Orders were shouted, equipment activated, stretchers dragged across the metal floor. Then someone noticed the boy.

  “Over here!” one of them called out. “He’s,”

  Several members of staff moved toward Vale, reaching for him, preparing to lift him onto a stretcher. They barely managed to close the distance before a sharp voice cut through the chaos.

  “Leave him.”

  The command was calm, but absolute.

  An old man stepped out from one of the adjacent offices. He had a long, well-kept gray beard and sharp eyes that missed nothing. His presence alone seemed to still the room.

  Wolfgang.

  The medical staff froze. Some looked confused. Others looked alarmed.

  “Sir,” one of them began, “the boy is clearly,”

  “I said leave him,” Wolfgang repeated, his tone sharper now. He walked closer, his gaze never leaving Vale. “He is already healing. Interfering with the process could destabilize the relics and kill him outright.”

  The staff exchanged uncertain glances.

  Wolfgang waved a dismissive hand, his expression bored, almost irritated. “The battle is over. You may return to your duties. I will look after the boy.”

  One of the medics, a man whose face still carried the pallor of adrenaline, hesitated. “Sir… the hell gate only opened five minutes ago. Are you saying it’s already been destroyed?”

  Wolfgang stroked his beard thoughtfully before glancing at the man. “Indeed,” he said evenly. “It has ended.”

  The medic’s eyes widened.

  “Now go,” Wolfgang continued, already losing interest. “I’ve explained enough.”

  Reluctantly, the staff withdrew. The medical wing slowly emptied, the noise fading until only the soft hum of machinery remained.

  Wolfgang dragged a chair across the floor and sat down in front of Vale.

  The boy knelt motionless, staring at the ground with hollow, unfocused eyes.

  Minutes passed.

  Then a hand twitched.

  More time slipped by before Vale’s head slowly lifted. His gaze met Wolfgang’s at last. He opened his mouth, but no sound came out.

  Wolfgang studied him carefully.

  The blue streaks beneath Vale’s skin had vanished. His wounds were gone. His body was fully healed.

  Only the blood remained.

  After several seconds, Vale finally managed to speak. His voice was quiet, distant, almost empty.

  “I… I am not dead?”

  Wolfgang raised an eyebrow.

  “Had you hoped to be?” the old man asked.

  Vale didn’t answer right away. His eyes drifted downward again.

  “No,” he said eventually. “I don’t think so.”

  He stared at himself, at the blood coating his armor and hands, as if seeing it for the first time. Slowly, he lifted his palms in front of his face.

  “I survived,” he murmured, disbelief threading through his voice.

  Back on the battlefield, when every blood vessel in his body had ruptured simultaneously, he hadn’t just thought he was going to die.

  The author's tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

  He had been certain.

  He had remained conscious, yes, but the pain and shock had been so overwhelming that the line between consciousness and oblivion had ceased to exist. There had been no fear. No clarity. Only endless pressure and silence.

  Now, he was here.

  Alive.

  Vale reached for the gauntlet covering his organic arm and removed it slowly. Beneath it, the implant embedded in his flesh was visible, and different. Its structure had shifted subtly, its surface more refined, more complete.

  It had awakened.

  His enigma had promised to return his memories.

  Instead, it had taken control of his body and won a battle he should not, could not, have survived at his current level. A battle his own strength had no right to overcome. And yet, using the same body, the same resources, it had emerged without sustaining a single injury.

  Only Vale bore the cost.

  His jaw tightened.

  Focusing, he willed the implant to change.

  He had seen it happen while his enigma had controlled him. Even if the body hadn’t been his in that moment, some knowledge had remained. He intended to use it.

  The implant began to glow faintly. Bone-like material unfolded, reshaping itself with smooth precision until a narrow blade formed, fitting perfectly into his grasp.

  Vale took the knife in his metallic hand.

  Without hesitation, he pressed it against his organic palm and pulled downward.

  The blade cut deep.

  He hissed sharply as pain flared, real, immediate.

  Blood welled.

  Then his eyes widened.

  The flesh knit itself together before his eyes. Tissue regenerated rapidly, the wound closing completely within seconds. Within half a minute, there was no trace of injury left, only fresh blood staining his skin.

  Vale stared.

  His relics had awakened.

  Both of them.

  His armor. His implant, no, his weapon.

  He now had access to their full power. Or at least far more than he had before.

  Under normal circumstances, he would have smiled. Laughed, even.

  Instead, he said nothing.

  His gaze remained hollow, devoid of joy, fixed on his hand as if it belonged to someone else.

  Wolfgang had remained silent throughout, allowing the boy the space he needed. Finally, the old man stood and walked toward the door of the medical wing. He paused and looked back at Vale.

  “They will return soon,” he said quietly. “Come, child. Greet them with me.”

  The words hung in the air.

  Vale did not respond immediately, but slowly, he began to rise.

  Vale rose unsteadily to his feet.

  The moment he shifted his weight, his legs betrayed him. He stumbled, instinctively reaching out and gripping the edge of a nearby metal desk. The cold surface bit into his palm as he held on, breathing heavily. His body continued to tremble, muscles tightening and releasing without his command, remnants of shock that refused to fade so easily.

  He closed his eyes and forced himself to inhale slowly.

  Once.

  Twice.

  It helped, barely.

  Wolfgang watched him with an indifferent expression, the kind that came only from long familiarity with suffering. He had seen countless soldiers, survivors, and broken children stand where Vale stood now. Still, he did not rush him. The old man understood when patience mattered.

  Gradually, Vale loosened his grip on the desk. His balance returned in fragments, his movements stiff and sluggish, but functional. He took a hesitant step forward, then another, moving toward the door where Wolfgang waited.

  The old man did not move. He simply stood there, allowing the boy to reach him in his own time.

  Together, they exited the medical wing.

  The moment Vale stepped outside, the sound of heavy machinery filled the air. His eyes lifted just in time to see a massive mech descending into Sector Zero, its thrusters flaring as it prepared to land. The machine’s silhouette was unmistakable.

  Caesar.

  Vale’s eyes widened slightly at the sight, recognition flickering across his exhausted features. He did not stop walking.

  They moved through the corridors and soon emerged into a vast open dock. The space bore the scars of recent conflict, scorched plating, lingering energy residue, but it was intact. Evelyn, Yuki, and Rikin were already there, standing together. Their expressions were subdued, the usual sharpness dulled by exhaustion and loss.

  Vale slowed.

  He looked at them briefly, his face somber, then lowered his gaze to the floor. He stared at the metal beneath his feet as if grounding himself, as if afraid that if he looked up again he might unravel.

  Then Wolfgang spoke beside him.

  “Look, boy.”

  Vale raised his head.

  A knight clad in white armor was walking toward them.

  The man’s presence was unmistakable. His pale skin contrasted sharply with his armor, and his bright golden hair caught the light as he moved. His icy blue eyes were fixed forward, empty of the warmth that usually accompanied his easy smile.

  Callum.

  That smile was gone.

  In his arms, he carried a woman.

  Her long hair was deep black, spilling over his armored gauntlets. Her eyes were closed, her expression peaceful in a way that felt cruel. Her skin was a muted gray, devoid of warmth or life. She wore pale armor, ancient, elegant, and fragile, its surface cracked and worn as if time itself had been gnawing at it for centuries. The armor looked moments away from collapsing entirely.

  Etched into it were sigils.

  A dragon.

  A knight.

  Vale’s breath caught.

  He stared at the woman in Callum’s arms, something tightening painfully in his chest. Instinctively, he tried to sense her, reaching outward with his perception, searching for even the faintest trace of atum.

  There was nothing.

  No atum.

  No chaotic resonance.

  No signature.

  It was as if she had never existed.

  Vale clenched his teeth.

  He knew the truth. He had always known it. When a spawn or a Visorian died, death was not the end, it was erasure. Their soul, their signature, was stripped from the cycle of reincarnation entirely. The body, crafted uniquely for that signature, became nothing more than an empty shell, unusable by any other soul.

  Knowing it and witnessing it were not the same.

  Callum passed by them without slowing, without acknowledging anyone in his path. He did not look left or right. His arms held the remains of his corrupted ancestor with unwavering care, as though she were still alive, as though she could still feel it.

  Vale watched them pass.

  He took one last look at her face before Callum moved beyond his field of vision.

  Silence followed.

  Wolfgang exhaled deeply.

  “Child,” he said quietly, turning to Vale, “you should rest. You have endured more than any of them today.”

  Vale looked up at the old man. His eyes were tired, distant, weighed down by too much understanding for someone his age. He said nothing for a long moment.

  Then he nodded.

  Without a word, he turned and made his way back to his quarters, where Ember and the others were waiting for him.