Unknown
Obsidian District, New Boston
North Atlantic Federation Arc Zone
Western Hemisphere, UEF
2435 A.D
Ellira felt Naia's pulse thrum beneath her palm—weak at first, then steadier, fuller, surging with renewed warmth. Her vitality, once slipping into frightening stillness, rebounded sharply as Ellira's Lumenis infusion completed its cycle. Relief flooded through her so suddenly her knees nearly buckled. She had poured far more energy into the healing than her drained core could reasonably spare, but it didn't matter. She had reached Naia in time. She had pulled her back. A flicker of movement brushed the edge of her senses. Ellira turned.
Diego was still on his feet. Smoke curled faintly from his skin, the raw burns she had seared across his body glowing like cooling metal—but they were already knitting together. Luminia regeneration was viciously efficient, and Luminiarons—even synthetic ones like Diego—possessed the same biological imperative: survive, repair, rise again. His flesh restored itself, cell by cell, shimmer by shimmer, but the tremor in his stance revealed the cost.
Regeneration devoured stamina. And he had almost none left. His core was a near-hollow shell—drained from the Bloodline Gem surge he had used against Naia, and the reinforcement weaves he had thrown at both of them. Only the fact that Diego carried a massive reserve spared him from collapsing on the spot. Any ordinary human—or even a Luminia of his tier—would have been unconscious by now.
"You're…alive." Ellira's voice wavered, her vision swimming at the edges. The words came out soft, almost slurred, her body giving way to exhaustion. Healing Naia had pushed her past her safe limit. The Lumenis she had offered wasn't just energy; it had been pieces of herself—her focus, her stability, her emotional anchor.
She felt hollow. Her legs folded beneath her before she realized she was falling. She slumped forward over Naia, instinct guiding her body even as consciousness frayed. She positioned herself like a shield, an instinctive, protective curl of her limbs around the woman she had nearly lost. Diego stared. Not with anger, not with hostility—but with stunned disbelief.
He hadn't expected Ellira to heal Naia at all, let alone this quickly or this completely. He hadn't meant to hurt her so severely—his rage at the corporate dynasties, at everything they represented, had clouded him, driven him past his usual restraint. But seeing Naia collapse, seeing the damage his own hands had inflicted… something inside him had buckled.
And now, watching Ellira lie over Naia like a guardian, watching her faint with the effort of saving someone he had nearly killed— A strange mix of admiration and regret tightened his chest.
He had wanted a real fight. He had wanted to test himself against the might of the Vasselheim house, to prove something—to himself, to the world, to the unseen chains of his past that he resented. But the moment had passed. And as he looked at the two women breathing faintly in each other's arms, the desire to battle them was drained off him.
But it was at that very moment that Diego felt it—the crushing weight of resonant pressure slamming against his Lumenis field. It was like the air itself had turned solid.
His chest tightened, lungs straining to draw breath as his pulse spiked violently. Sweat beaded across his brow and traced down his face in trembling rivulets. The floor beneath him quivered, small fractures forming in the alloy tiles as the invisible weight pressed downward. Every instinct screamed at him to brace, to run, to fight, but all he could do was turn toward the source—the approaching storm. From the edge of the chamber's shattered darkness, a figure stepped into the light.
Elias Vasselheim.
The Saber of Conviction gleamed faintly in his grasp, its edges glowing with a muted gold luminescence that thrummed in rhythm with his heartbeat. His dark hair swept to the side from the invisible wind of his own energy field. His eyes—sharp, verdant, and unwavering—locked onto Diego with quiet fury.
The Lumenis field around Elias was honed to perfection, a cutting edge of pure resonance, dense and refined enough to shear through reinforced plating or distort the space around it. The air shimmered like glass about to shatter. Yet Diego, through raw instinct and the stubborn durability of his hybrid blood, held his ground. His own field rippled in protest, barely keeping him upright under the pressure.
Elias's gaze flicked briefly to the side—to the two women lying near the center of the chamber. Naia. Her chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm. And then Ellira. Unconscious, but still protecting her with her body. Relief flickered behind the calm mask on his face, but it was gone as quickly as it came. His focus returned to Diego, eyes narrowing with lethal clarity.
"You did this," Elias said.
He didn't shout it—he didn't need to. The words carried like a verdict, absolute and cold. In the next instant, he was gone from where he stood. A flash of gold and soundless displacement followed—and suddenly, Elias was right beside him, the Saber's edge drawn in a stance so precise, so refined, that Diego's instincts screamed before his mind could even process it. He knew that form. That angle. That stance. That silence before the strike.
A ghost of memory stirred in Diego's training—the legends, the recordings, the countless duels fought and lost against that very technique. Every martial artist knew it. Every soldier feared it.
"The… Luminous Blade Style," Diego muttered, his voice barely above a whisper.
He could feel his pulse synchronize with Elias's resonance—the deadly calm before a killing stroke. The chamber's light flickered, dancing across the golden arc of the Saber as the two fields collided again, sharper and heavier than before.
For a moment, the air itself seemed to hold its breath. One was a weary Luminiaron—burned, staggering, yet refusing to fall. The other—a swordsman whose conviction could reshape the field itself.
Thunder Division.
The world cracked.
Elias executed a rapid flash-step cut, tearing a seam through the air. The slice didn't just travel forward—it divided the chamber, a pressure shockwave erupting outward like rolling thunder. The impact hit Diego before his body could react, his nerves firing too slowly to register even an instinct to block.
The shockwave's sharpness tore through him. Blood burst from his shoulders, back, and chest in thin lines. His vision spun. His knees hit the floor first. Then the rest of him followed in a limp collapse. Unconscious before he touched the ground.
Elias didn't spare the fallen Luminiaron a glance. His sheath materialized in a flicker of golden geometric light, wrapping around the Saber of Conviction as he dismissed its battle state. He immediately crossed the chamber, dropping beside Naia, checking her pulse, brushing a hand across her brow to confirm stability. His attention was wholly consumed—Diego's defeat was already an afterthought.
"Elias… Elias… come in." Ryn's voice crackled through the comm.
The Gembeast had stayed back, observing the battle from the shadows. As an Apex Resonant stage entity with no authorization from GSA to be in New Boston, he had avoided getting involved. Elias breaking UEF law to arrive here was one thing; dragging Ryn into the same infraction was another. Remaining uninvolved was his only protection.
"I'm here," Elias replied without looking away from Naia. His sister breathed. Ellira breathed. That was all that mattered.
"It looks like we have some company," Ryn's voice came in through the comm. Elias probed his senses beyond the building and felt the company that had arrived.
"Damn it," He muttered. "Ryn, get the hell out of here. I'll handle it."
"Already moved," Ryn muttered back. "Going off comm." Elias heard the static from Ryn's side as he turned off his comm. He stood up, preparing to deal with the fallout that was about to hit him.
****
The medical team hurried past, pushing the twin stretchers that carried Naia and Ellira. Both women were unconscious, their faces pale but peaceful—no visible wounds, no burns, not even a bruise. Only the faint shimmer of residual Lumenis clung to their skin, a trace of the immense healing and resonance exchange that had nearly killed them both.
Outside, the GSA convoy had arrived in force. Dozens of armored agents swept through the shattered entrance, weapons drawn, resonance detectors pulsing with faint blue light. At their head was Captain John Beirut, his voice crisp as he issued containment orders. It was clear they'd been drawn here by the overwhelming surge of Lumenis energy that had erupted from the building earlier.
Elias exhaled quietly. He had hoped the barrier around the building would mask the energy signature long enough to finish what he came for—but the instant he broke through it during his entry, the interference field must have collapsed.
Now, the cleanup had arrived. He watched as the GSA team emerged from the building moments later, hauling a man in heavy suppressor cuffs—Nine. The faint hum of the cuffs made the air buzz as they dragged him toward one of the containment vans, his once-brilliant aura reduced to a dull flicker.
Captain John spotted Elias across the cordon and approached, his expression unreadable beneath the visor.
"Captain," Elias greeted, his tone calm but weary.
"Agent Vasselheim," John replied with a curt nod, his voice carrying both respect and reprimand. "You've caused quite the scene."
Elias's gaze flicked toward the vans. "Is that the only one left in there?"
John's jaw tightened. "Mostly corpses," he said flatly.
A quiet beat passed. Elias's mind flickered back to Diego—the instant thunder cut, the collapse, the blood, and the body that should've been right where he'd fallen. But Diego was nowhere in custody.
He escaped, Elias realized. Somehow.
"Tell me, Agent Vasselheim—" Captain John's voice cut through the hum of engines and distant chatter. "—does this have anything to do with the Hall of Radiance bombing?"
The question hung in the air like static. Elias paused mid-step. His reflection stared back at him from the cracked visor of John's helmet. He remembered the day of the bombing—the alarms, the smoke, the screams echoing through steel corridors. And this man—the one now questioning him—had been in charge of that building's security.
He met John's eyes briefly. "I'm afraid I can't comment on the case," Elias said evenly. His tone was professional, but the faint strain beneath it betrayed that he'd already been pushing limits all night.
He turned toward the detention van where Nine sat cuffed inside, the suppressor rings glowing faintly around his wrists. The metallic doors shut with a heavy thud. Then came the sound of new engines.
Sleek black transports rolled into the perimeter, their quiet hum somehow heavier than the armored carriers the GSA had brought. Doors slid open in perfect synchronization. Men and women stepped out in dark corporate suits, tinted visors hiding their eyes, movements too controlled to be ordinary law officers. Even before they spoke, the air shifted—an authority heavier than rank alone.
Elias straightened unconsciously, his instincts prickling. The one in front flicked his wrist. A thin blue hologram shimmered into the air from the LumenPad embedded along his forearm. The badge glowed with official emblems and a seal reserved for high-clearance personnel.
"We're here to apprehend the Radical," the man said, his voice calm, absolute.
Captain John stepped forward, boots crunching on broken glass. "And who exactly are you supposed to be?"
Elias didn't need to ask. He'd already seen the insignia—etched in silver threads along the man's collar. Warden Division. The Captain's jaw tightened.
"Wardens," he muttered, like a curse under his breath.
They weren't Enforcement, like Elias—agents bound by UEF law. They weren't Security, like John—keepers of public order. The Wardens were something else entirely: the corporate houses' hands inside the GSA, the bridge between government and dynasty. They answered upward, not outward. Elias felt their presence settle around him like cold pressure. Their resonance was muted, contained, trained—the kind that didn't need to flare to prove its dominance. They were all in the low-end Crown tier.
The lead Warden offered a faint, polite smile that didn't reach his eyes.
"We'll take it from here," he said.
"This is my prisoner," Elias said, his tone edged but steady. "And I'll be the one interrogating him." A low, measured voice answered before the nearest Warden even blinked.
"I'm afraid you misunderstand, Agent Vasselheim."
The speaker stepped forward—mid-thirties, composed, immaculate. His badge flickered across the surface of his LumenPad, displaying his name and crest in a swirl of green light.
Thomas Celestex. Verdant Warden. The moment Elias saw the sigil etched beside the name, a small knot formed in his gut. Celestex House.
The corporate web inside the GSA was vast—Crown Wardens from House Aurion, Silver from his own House Vasselheim, Obsidian and Bronze from Mirage and Chronostone. The Verdant Order, however, answered to Celestex—a name that carried political weight heavy enough to silence entire divisions. Thomas adjusted his gloves, voice smooth, practiced, and absolute.
"Under the authority of Verdant Order—Celestex Directive Nine-Bravo, this incident now falls under our jurisdiction. I'm well aware of your clearance, Agent, but not even that grants you precedence here." He paused, letting his gaze linger just long enough for Elias to feel the deliberate condescension.
"If you doubt me, speak to your father. He'll confirm I'm speaking the truth."
Then, without waiting for a reply, he turned to his subordinates and flicked two fingers forward.
"Take him."
The Wardens moved as one—fluid, silent, efficient. They reached the van, disabling its seals with a coded pulse, and pulled Nine out by the arms. One drew a slim injector from his sleeve, pressing it into the Luminiaron's neck. A faint hiss, a flash of green, and Nine went limp.
Elias's eyes narrowed. "Was that really necessary?"
Thomas barely glanced at him. "What we Wardens do is our concern—and ours alone." He stepped closer, lowering his voice. "You should also know your investigation into the Hall of Radiance bombing has been… terminated." The words hit harder than the pressure field Elias had unleashed earlier.
"What?" His voice dropped, almost flat.
"As I said," Thomas replied, already turning away, "ask your father. He'll explain why."
He gestured toward the remaining officers. "All evidence from this site falls under Warden custody. Captain, your men will hand over every forensic sample and data record immediately."
Captain John's shoulders tightened beneath his armor. "Understood," he said quietly. There was no room to argue—he didn't have the rank or the political backing. Better to comply than to vanish into a corporate dispute that could end a career overnight.
Within minutes, the Wardens were gone—black transports disappearing into the night, leaving only silence and the stench of ozone behind. Elias and Captain John stood side by side, watching the last vehicle fade beyond the perimeter lights.
John exhaled. "Alright, people, wrap it up. We're done here." He turned to Elias, voice softening. "What are you going to do now?"
Elias's gaze followed the departing convoy. For a long moment, he said nothing. Then—quietly, decisively— "I'm going with the ambulance."
He walked toward the medic transport where Naia and Ellira lay, the Saber of Conviction faintly glowing at his hip. The night around him felt colder now, heavier—not from battle, but from the weight of politics he could no longer ignore.