Chapter 33: The Matrix of Balance
The forest beyond Shinya stretched endless beneath the starlit sky. It was here, far from the sanctuary's reach, that the rebels found their fleeting refuge. The trees groaned under the weight of the night wind, and the earth smelled of smoke—remnants of the Celtic High's wrath spreading across the land.
By the firelight, the escaped stood in silence, each consumed by their own thoughts. Moro's eyes glimmered faintly with the memory of his father's will. Kaya sharpened her blade, the steel whispering against the whetstone. Hanks rested against a tree, his cloak torn but his posture still dignified. Herbet and his squad worked in hushed tones, patching wounds and watching the shadows.
And in the center sat Xerx.
The mystic magician's staff rested across his knees, its runes glowing softly with pale violet light. His hood was down now, revealing sharp features, silver hair falling like threads of moonlight, and eyes that carried an age far beyond his face. He had said little since their escape, only that dawn would reveal answers.
When the first streaks of light cracked across the horizon, Moro stepped forward.
"You said the Celtic High cannot be defeated with strength alone," Moro said. His voice was firm, though beneath it burned impatience. "You said my matrix… could be the key. What do you mean by that?"
Xerx's gaze rose to meet his, calm and piercing. "The council thrives on imbalance. Their dark magic is parasitic—it feeds on weakness, fear, and the breaking of natural order. It is not power they wield but corruption. That is why they appear undefeatable. You cannot match corruption by simply striking harder. You must nullify it. Destroy its foundation."
He raised his staff, and sparks of light shimmered, weaving into complex symbols. "The matrix you carry, Moro, is not just raw strength. It is balance—between light and dark, physical and mystic. Few ever awaken it fully, for it requires harmony between opposing forces within oneself. But if mastered, the matrix does not only resist dark energy… it erases its hold."
The runes shifted into the shape of a circle divided in two, a pulse of energy rippling outward. "This is what the Celtic High fears most. Not strength. Not rebellion. Balance."
Moro frowned. "I've tapped into it in battle. But it's like grasping fire with bare hands. It burns away as quickly as it comes."
"That is because you are wielding it as a weapon," Xerx replied, his voice steady. "But the matrix is not a sword. It is a foundation. You must learn to breathe with it, live with it, until it is not summoned but is you."
He stood, motioning for Moro to follow. "Come. The training begins now."
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They moved deeper into the forest, where mist clung to the roots and the air was heavy with quiet.
"Close your eyes," Xerx commanded. "Forget your father's shadow. Forget your enemies. Feel the strands of energy within you. One burns—your will, your strength. The other flows—the mystic current you inherited. They war against each other because you make them war. Stop forcing dominance. Let them speak."
Moro obeyed, shutting his eyes. At first, all he felt was the clash—the storm of raw power, fire and frost colliding, sparks breaking apart. His fists clenched, sweat forming on his brow.
"Calm," Xerx's voice echoed, low and resonant. "Do not resist. Do not control. Simply… listen."
For a moment, Moro felt nothing. Then—like faint heartbeats—he sensed it: two streams, light and dark, winding like rivers across the same path. They pushed against each other, yet they did not seek destruction. They sought completion.
His breathing slowed. His chest felt lighter. The two streams merged, their edges blurring into a single current—smooth, flowing, alive.
The ground beneath him trembled. Energy sparked around his body, a faint glow wrapping his skin like a second layer.
Xerx's eyes sharpened. "Yes. That is the matrix. Not summoned… but awakened."
The glow faded, and Moro staggered forward, panting.
"It's… overwhelming."
"And it always will be," Xerx said firmly. "But in that balance lies the only weapon that can strip the Celtic High of their darkness. You must practice until this state is second nature. Until their corruption cannot touch you."
Moro looked up, determination hardening his gaze. "Then I'll master it. For Shinya. For my father."
Xerx nodded but said nothing more. His silence carried both approval and warning.
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Back at the camp, Kaya sparred with Hanks, blades clashing in the dawn.
"You're recovering fast," Kaya said, her strikes sharp.
Hanks blocked with precise movements, his voice calm despite the effort. "Wisdom has no use in chains. Free, it sharpens quickly."
Herbet approached, his squad gathered behind him. His expression was grim. "We cannot stay hidden forever. The people are losing hope. If we wait too long, the Celtic High will crush every ember of rebellion before it ignites."
Xerx returned with Moro, his cloak trailing faint sparks of mystic residue. He studied Herbet, then spoke. "There will be no victory in rushing to war. But there will be no survival in waiting either. The rebellion must move to its second phase."
Herbet's eyes narrowed. "And what would that be?"
"The people need more than warriors," Xerx said. "They need belief. A symbol that the Celtic High are not gods. That their darkness can bleed." He looked at Moro. "That symbol is already here."
Moro clenched his fists, the memory of his training still fresh in his veins. "Then I'll be their proof."
Herbet's jaw tightened. "So be it. Tonight, phase two begins. We strike—not to topple the council yet, but to remind the city of Shinya that the High can be resisted."
The rebels murmured their agreement, fire igniting in weary eyes.
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But far above, in the sanctuary, a darker plan was unfolding.
The Celtic High stood in their circle, robed in shadows. Their voices wove in unison, ancient incantations spilling across the hall like venom. At the center knelt Hawks, his body trembling as the dark energy coursed into him, searing his flesh, twisting his veins.
"Rise, Shadow Fang," one of the High intoned, their voice echoing with layered tones. "Let the darkness consume you, let our will remake you. You are no longer a hunter. You are judgment itself."
Hawks' scream shattered into silence as his form stilled. His eyes opened, glowing black with streaks of crimson. When he rose, his aura was no longer his own—it was the will of the Celtic High, forged into flesh.
The eldest of the High raised his staff. "The rebellion grows bolder. Let them. Their hope will be the blade we shatter, their symbol the fire we drown. The true war…" His lips curved into a cruel smile. "…has only just begun."
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