The higher a Viran rose through the stages of power, the more devastating their Resonant Arts — techniques powered by Vira — became.
For Virans like Anele and Rhesa, who stood at the Fifth Stage of Power — Virans known as Kyrios — their techniques were no longer mere weapons.
They were calamities.
Anele hovered twenty meters above the battlefield, beneath the living veil of blood that had swallowed the sky.
Below, the world had turned red. His crimson jacket whipped in the wind, and threads of blood coiled around his limbs like serpents. He pointed his blood scythe toward the battlefield, then called out his mid-tier Art:
"Hands of Judgment!"
The veil of blood rumbled.
From it, colossal crimson hands erupted, hundreds of them, as far as the eye could see.
They came with open palms, each one wide, upright, and impossibly massive. Fingers splayed like the statues of silent gods, yet utterly wrong in proportion, with too many knuckles and too many joints, as though they had been sculpted by a blind child dreaming of divinity.
They descended slowly at first, like judgment being passed. Then faster.
Below, Rhesa didn't move. Her hands remained locked in prayer, fingers clenched tight, knuckles white with strain. Her head was bowed slightly, eyes closed in focus.
Then her voice rang out, calm, commanding, and absolute:
"Rain of Penitence."
The air shivered.
To her left, the archer golem stirred, its eyes flaring with radiant gold. It lifted its bow, within which rested a gleaming javelin of condensed metal. At the same time, the vast swarm of metallic fragments that had orbited its form converged, drawn together by an invisible force. The pieces fused midair, stacking, locking, and reshaping until dozens of javelins hovered in formation around it, each glowing faintly with the heat of creation.
They circled the golem like soldiers awaiting a command.
Then the archer fired its javelin. As soon as it did, all the javelins hovering in the air above followed. Each roared across the battlefield like artillery, splitting the blood-red sky.
Shockwaves tore through rubble and stone. One by one, the descending hands were pierced mid-fall, their massive palms rupturing as molten metal punched through them. Crimson limbs burst open in explosions, raining steaming gore across the earth.
But it wasn't enough.
Rhesa uttered another command. "Warden's Sentence!"
The Knight Warden in front of her, a towering monolith of plated iron and sacred wrath, surged forward like a cathedral of metal in motion. With each step, the ground trembled beneath its weight.
As it charged, its lance twisted, reshaping in real time, divine metal clanging and folding, reforging itself into a colossal blade. Then it leapt, and with one brutal sweep, tore through the cluster of descending hands. Fingers the size of trees spiraled down, severed mid-air like broken marble columns.
Then the knight landed hard.
A thunderous quake rippled outward as it drove the massive blade into the earth, burying it to the hilt. It was a declaration, like planting a war banner in hell.
Above, Anele grinned. His eyes gleamed with something sharp and satisfied. He raised his hand, fingers curling slightly, as if tugging at something invisible just beyond the veil, then whispered another Art:
"Vipers of the Vein."
The sky convulsed.
The veil above shuddered violently, as if in pain, its screaming faces twisting and warping. Then the fabric tore open, and three gargantuan serpents descended through the wound. They slithered downward, each a river of blood made flesh. Their bodies coiled through the air with unnatural speed, twisting and snapping with fluid precision. And they dripped gore as they moved, leaving the scent of rot in their wake.
Their heads were malformed, draconic things. They did not have eyes and their mouths were wide with fangs that glistened like wet swords. One hissed, and it didn't sound like an animal. It sounded like a choir of people crying for help.
Below, the Knight Warden roared, a metallic bellow that split the air, and charged the central serpent. Steel collided with blood in a violent clash, sending sparks and crimson spraying across the battlefield.
But the other two serpents didn't slow.
They veered straight for Rhesa, fangs bared, bodies twisting midair like coiling executioners.
Her hands stayed clenched tightly together, fingers locked in the same unbroken prayer. Then she called out her defensive Art:
"Warden's Pillar!"
The tank golem answered immediately, dragging its colossal shield across the shattered field. With a deafening clang, it slammed it into the ground, anchoring it like a barricade against gods.
Above, the metals suspended in the air, those still orbiting the archer, shot toward the shield. One by one, they stacked, fused, and folded into it, guided by unseen schematics.
The shield grew, expanded, and rose. Plate after plate locked into place until the construct towered over Rhesa. It resembled a fortress forged mid-battle with dark iron and gleaming sigils, pulsing with sacred energy.
Then came the serpents.
The two blood-drenched monsters collided with the fortress like meteors, their shrieks splitting the air.
The iron wall groaned but held, and just then, spikes burst outward from it, impaling both serpents before they could regain their balance.
The beasts writhed, fangs clashing against the air, bodies twisting violently as blood gushed in thick waves from the wounds. They screamed, long, shrill, and inhuman. And then they died.
Their forms collapsed, sliding down the walls like hunted prey, leaving steaming trails of gore behind.
Behind the structure, Rhesa swayed and stumbled. Her breath was shallow and ragged. Yet she struggled to keep her footing until the last serpent was destroyed.
She looked up… just in time to see the Knight Warden bring its blade crashing down on the last serpent in a clean cleave. The serpent split like wet paper, blood erupting like a broken dam. Its body unraveled and dissolved.
And for one long, jagged moment, silence settled over the battlefield.
Then… Rhesa dropped to both knees, gasping for breath as her vision blurred and her lungs began to burn — a clear sign she was running out of Vira.
Rhesa was different from other Virans.
Even as a child, her vessel, which was the inner core that held her Vira, the energy Virans used, had always been small and fragile, barely able to contain a fraction of what others could. While her peers could wield large techniques with ease or fight for long periods, she was always left behind.
And so, even though she managed to climb the stages of power and eventually, somehow, reached the Fifth, her vessel remained smaller than others of the same stage. As a result, conflict like this, drawn-out and brutal, was her greatest weakness.
She avoided them when she could. But today, there had been no choice.
'Dammit… dammit… dammit…'
She clenched her teeth as her hands trembled against the cracked stone and her body convulsed in tiny, disobedient spasms. Her skin had turned pale, drained of warmth, and her entire body rebelled with each breath she forced into it. Too much of her Vira had been spent, more than she could safely channel.
Her Throne of the Iron Gospel was powerful, but every second it stood, it drained her from the inside. And now, she was almost running low.
Worse still, Anele was the Kyrios of the Vein. Even the smallest scratch could become a death sentence in his domain, which was why she could not attack him herself and had to rely on large techniques for both offense and defense, since she could not afford to be cut and made to bleed.
She clenched her fists and forced herself upright, staggering through the exhaustion. She had no other options. As long as Anele remained and she was not dead, she would continue fighting.
***
Inside the Warden's Carapace, time crawled.
The dome trembled with every strike outside. The air had turned thick, heavy with dust. Hairline cracks spiderwebbed along the walls. With each distant explosion, the metal groaned, and more dust fell.
Ren sat pressed against the cold interior, eyes wide, his breath shallow.
He had always known what a Viran was, or at least he thought he did.
Everyone who watched the news knew. They were painted as gifts from God, people born with supernatural abilities meant to help the world. Some reshaped infrastructure with a thought. Some grew food in barren districts. Some even assisted with healthcare in the district.
They were quiet, always controlled, and strictly regulated.
Occasionally, one might break protocol or cause a disturbance, but they were always arrested and restrained, and the world moved on.
That's why this war that was tearing the city apart was unthinkable.
It felt like two gods had descended, begun fighting over something ancient and unknowable, with no care for the humans crushed beneath their feet.
And yet, that wasn't the part that shattered him most.
'Mom…? Mom… is a Viran too?'
The thought felt impossible to Ren, like trying to breathe underwater.
And not only was she a Viran, but one with a level of power the news had never shown before.
Even Simon hadn't known. That much was obvious. The look in his eyes, the mix of fear and awe and confusion, said everything.
And still, none of them spoke about it, not now, not here, not while she was fighting out there, standing between them and death.
Ren had a thousand questions, but they all came tangled.
His breath hitched as the metal dome quaked again, casting flickers of dust into the dim, copper-lit air.
He could barely make out his father's face in the gloom. Simon sat hunched, cradling Anya like she might fall apart if he let go for even a second. Tears streaked down his face, silent and hot.
Anya trembled like a leaf in a storm. Her small hands clutched her bear so tightly its seams looked ready to burst. She kept whispering the same words, over and over again, barely audible.
"Is Mom okay…? Is Mom okay…?"
Simon pressed his face to her hair, voice cracking as he whispered,
"She's strong."
Watching them, Ren could tell that Simon said that not for her, but for himself. He looked down at his palms. They trembled lightly, rhythmically, like the aftershocks of a fading quake.
But what unsettled him most wasn't the shaking. It was the fact that he felt... nothing. No panic, no dread, no terror clawing at his chest. Just silence.
'Why… why am I calm?
Why don't I feel afraid?
Aren't I supposed to be terrified right now?'
His hands shook and his breath came shallow, but inside there was a quiet too still to be normal, and his mind was clear.
'It doesn't make sense…'
Across from him, Simon turned, gently adjusting Anya in his arms. His eyes fell on Ren.
"Ren?" he asked, voice barely holding together. "Are you okay?"
Ren blinked. The question didn't feel real.
"I… I think I am," he answered.
But he wasn't sure if that made things better… or worse.