The Information Dispersal Unit, its criers increasingly harassed and its information sporadic, faded into unreliable whispers. Yet, the need for news, for connection to the world beyond Starbreach's crumbling walls, remained desperate. Rumours began to circulate of a new, independent effort, a small resilient news hub established amidst the ruins by a group of stranded Morphai technicians. Leveraging their innate skills in precision mechanics and optimization, they were supposedly patching together salvaged communication arrays, boosting faint signals, painstakingly creating a fragile link to the outside.
Mireia, ever practical and seeking reliable intelligence for their camp's survival, decided to investigate. Flareon, restless and weary of the camp's increasingly tense atmosphere, volunteered to escort her. Navigating the fractured city was perilous, and his presence, while potentially drawing unwanted attention, also offered a measure of security.
They found the Morphai hub tucked away in the surprisingly intact basement levels of what had once been a high-end Terragrove Union trade embassy. The space hummed with quiet, focused activity. Morphai, maintaining their typical humanoid sizes but occasionally shrinking hands or fingers for intricate work, moved between salvaged consoles and jury-rigged antennas. Wires snaked across the floor, power supplied by a carefully optimized generator that purred with unusual efficiency. The air smelled faintly of ozone and solder.
A stout Morphai with grease-stained coveralls and sharp, intelligent eyes greeted them cautiously. He introduced himself as Grok, the lead technician.
"Water Sorcerai Mireia? And Fire Sorcerai Flareon."
Grok acknowledged them, his gaze lingering briefly on Flareon's distinctive pupils.
"Heard you were maintaining a stable camp. We're trying to do the same for information. It's slow work. Signals are weak, interference is high."
Mireia offered a polite nod.
"We appreciate any news you can share, Technician Grok. Especially verified reports. Rumours are tearing this city apart."
Grok led them towards a cluster of salvaged monitors displaying flickering static and fragmented data streams.
"Verification is the hardest part."
He admitted, tapping a console.
"We're pulling fragments from Spectrahold long-range relays, patching into Prismatic Citadel emergency frequencies where we can... even picking up faint signals from remote Terragrove agricultural sensors."
He sighed, adjusting a dial.
"Most of it is noise. Distress calls we can't answer. Garbled military chatter. But sometimes... sometimes something clear comes through."
He pointed to a specific monitor displaying scrolling lines of text, periodically freezing and catching up.
"This feed... patched through three relays, originating from a Farseer geological survey team. Deep in the Scorching Wastes."
Flareon and Mireia leaned closer, reading the fragmented updates. The initial reports spoke of discovering the massive chasm, the strange flora, the anomalous energy readings. Then, the chilling confirmation:
...VISUAL CONFIRMATION. VOIDWALKER ENTITY OBSERVED. DIRECT ASCENT FROM ANOMALY. REPEAT. DIRECT ASCENT. SIZE EST. FIFTY METERS. TRAJECTORY SW. ORIGIN POINT CONFIRMED BELOW SURFACE...
The feed flickered, showing later updates about the descent into the chasm, the discovery of the alien ecosystem thriving just below the rim.
Mireia drew a sharp breath. Flareon stared at the words, the confirmation hitting him with the force of a physical blow.
"Below..."
Mireia murmured, looking at Flareon, her eyes wide.
"Boltar was... right. They're coming from below."
Flareon felt a cold certainty settle over him, overriding his earlier skepticism.
"The gateway theory..."
He muttered, thinking back to their camp discussion.
Grok, noticing their intense focus on the feed, turned from the console, his expression grim. He'd seen that look on many faces in recent months.
"Voidwalker origin?"
He repeated, his voice flat.
"We process the data. We don't interpret the terror."
He sighed, rubbing his tired eyes.
"But... if you force a Morphai to speculate..."
He looked from Flareon to Mireia, his gaze sharp.
"I've worked with Aetherium, with precision alloys... I understand how physical things work."
He shook his head slowly.
"That thing... Its existence is an insult to engineering."
He gestured towards the screen again.
"I'd say it comes through. From the Underworld as your legends say. But the Underworld isn't dirt and rock. It's... something else."
Grok swiped a hand across the console, bringing up another fragmented data stream, this one pieced together from faint Prismatic Citadel emergency broadcasts intercepted over the past few cycles. The text was simpler, less technical, carrying the weight of communal grief.
"Citadel report just stabilized..."
Grok murmured, his voice softening slightly.
"They're holding... a state funeral. In the main chamber of the Light Core. For all those lost in the Ring districts... who didn't make it underground before the beams hit."
The words hung heavy in the small basement room. Mireia closed her eyes for a moment, a flicker of pain crossing her features. She likely knew people, friends, colleagues, who hadn't survived the surface devastation. Flareon bowed his head slightly, a rare gesture of overt respect and shared sorrow. Even amidst the ruin of Starbreach, the news from their ravaged home struck a deep chord, a reminder of the shared loss that now bound all the peoples of Terravos. The Citadel, despite its power and precautions, had bled.
Grok gave them a moment before moving to the next significant fragment, this one tagged with Spectrahold Republic identifiers, likely relayed from their powerful observatory.
"And from the Farseers..."
He said, his tone shifting back to grim urgency.
"The Gaze of Spectrahold is operational, running passive scans. They've logged multiple contacts... High altitude."
He highlighted a specific line of text:
...MULTIPLE VOIDWALKER SIGNATURES DETECTED. ALTITUDE CONSISTENT WITH MESOSPHERE. REPEAT. MESOSPHERE...
"Mesosphere..."
Mireia breathed, glancing instinctively upwards as if she could pierce the layers of ruin and rock above them.
"That high? Near the edge of space?"
Flareon looked grimly at the report.
"So they don't just crawl out of the hole."
He stated quietly, locking eyes with Mireia.
"They can operate up there. Descend from anywhere."