Location: Fenwick District — The Aetherium Foundry — Evening
The facility rose from the industrial sprawl like a fortress of iron and shadow.
It was not a building—it was a presence. Walls of reinforced concrete rose three stories high, their surfaces unbroken by windows, their corners reinforced with steel plates. A single gate dominated the front entrance—thick, armored, flanked by guard towers where figures in dark uniforms stood motionless.
Vehicles surrounded the compound.
Armored personnel carriers, their surfaces painted matte black, their tires thick, their turrets pointed at the sky. Military trucks, their beds covered with tarps, their engines humming. Jeeps with mounted weapons, their drivers scanning the perimeter with eyes that never blinked.
A sign above the gate read:
AETHERIUM FOUNDRY — RESTRICTED ACCESS — AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY
The letters were embossed in steel. They caught the dying light.
---
Inside, the foundry was a cathedral of industry.
The main hall stretched the length of a football field, its ceiling lost in shadow. Massive machines dominated the space—their surfaces polished, their mechanisms humming, their cores glowing with pale blue light. The air was thick with heat, with the smell of ozone and something else—something that made the skin prickle and the hair stand on end.
At the center of the hall, the Loom.
It was not a machine. It was an apparatus. A framework of steel and crystal, its arms extended like the legs of a spider, its core a sphere of condensed light. Beneath it, a worktable. On the worktable, a Vein frame—half-formed, its surface still glowing.
Aetherium condensates dripped from the Loom's arms. They formed a steady stream of pale blue light that flowed into the Vein frame, carving its surface, etching its patterns, shaping its form.
It was beautiful.
It was hungry.
Supervisors moved between the machines—men and women in white coats, their faces hidden behind visors, their hands covered in gloves. They carried tablets, their screens filled with data that moved too fast to read. They spoke in low voices, their words swallowed by the hum of the Loom.
Security personnel stood at the edges of the hall. Their uniforms were black, their faces hidden behind helmets. They carried weapons—not pistols, something heavier, something that hummed with the same pale blue light as the Loom.
---
The conference room was smaller.
A long table dominated the center, its surface polished, its edges sharp. Chairs surrounded it—high-backed, leather, designed to make the people who sat in them feel important.
Six figures sat around the table.
At the head, a man named Jericho Jerkins.
His face was sharp, his eyes cold, his hair cropped short. His uniform was dark, decorated with insignia that marked him as a high-ranking operative. His hands were clasped on the table. His knuckles were white.
Beside him, a woman named Isha Patel.
Her skin was warm, her hair pulled back in a tight bun, her glasses thin and silver. She wore a tailored suit, charcoal gray, its lines clean. Her expression was calm. Professional.
Across from her, Eugene Torrent.
His face was lean, his eyes dark, his posture rigid. He wore a dark jacket, high-collared, its sleeves rolled to his elbows. Vein frame markings traced his forearms—not the metal rings of lesser users, something deeper, something that had been burned into his skin.
Next to him, a woman named Chiara Wycliffe.
Her face was young, her hair pastel pink, her dress short. She swung her legs beneath the table, her heels tapping against the chair's legs. Her expression was bored. Almost disinterested.
Beside her, a man named Valerik Mirrorshade.
His face was sharp, his eyes pale, his posture the posture of someone who had been trained to stand at attention. He was younger than the others, his skin smooth, his hands still soft.
And at the far end, a woman named Zhang Su.
Her face was unreadable, her hair long, her nails painted blood-red. She was examining them—holding them up to the light, turning them this way and that, as if the conversation around her was not important enough to interrupt her inspection.
---
Jericho's voice was flat.
"You mean to tell me," he said, "that not only did we lose one of our senior engineers, but we also lost the labor supply from the Ferrano corridors? The product that was supposed to flow through the Ashwick corridors has stopped."
His eyes moved to Eugene.
"Are you messing with me?"
Eugene's expression didn't change.
"No, sir."
"Then explain it to me. How did a couple of amateurs manage to—"
"They weren't amateurs."
Jericho's eyes narrowed.
"Excuse me?"
"The engineer who was taken—Wilfred Von Bron—he didn't just vanish. He was abducted. By someone who knew what they were doing."
"And the Ferrano laborers?"
"Vanished. All of them."
Jericho's hand slammed against the table.
The sound echoed off the walls.
"This is unacceptable!"
He stood.
His chair scraped against the floor.
"Two losses—two major losses—in the span of weeks. And now you're telling me that the perpetrators are still at large? That the Foundry's operations have been compromised?"
"Sir—"
"Don't 'sir' me."
Jericho's face was red.
"Do you have any idea what this means? The prestige of this institute—the Aetherium Foundry—the reputation that we've built over decades—all of it is being soaked in the blood of our incompetence!"
Isha's voice was calm.
"Jericho."
He turned.
"What?"
"Relax."
"Relax?"
"Yes. Relax."
She gestured at the table.
"Getting angry won't bring back the engineers. It won't bring back the laborers. It won't—"
"I know that."
"Then act like it."
Jericho's jaw tightened.
But he sat down.
---
Chiara's legs stopped swinging.
"Everything is so uncomfortable," she said. "When you get mad. And when you get mad, I get very mad."
Her eyes moved to Eugene.
"And when I get very mad, I start thinking about all the ways I could make the people who made me mad... stop being mad."
Eugene's expression didn't change.
But his hands, under the table, curled into fists.
"The Wycliffe family," someone would later whisper. "They're all like that. The ones who know what they are. The ones who have been touched by the illusion."
"Don't offend them. It's not worth it."
Valerik's voice was quiet.
"If I may—"
"You may not."
Chiara's eyes were still on Eugene.
---
Zhang Su's voice cut through the tension.
"Can we stop yelling? It's giving me a headache."
She examined her nails again.
"And it's ruining my concentration."
Jericho's expression shifted.
His anger was still there. But something else joined it—a recognition of the woman's status, her family, her connections.
"Zhang Su," he said. "I would appreciate it if you could be more attentive."
"I am attentive."
She looked up from her nails.
"I'm just not interested."
"This is important."
"Is it?"
Her eyes met his.
"My uncle is always so nosy about my business. I don't need you to be the same way."
Jericho's jaw tightened.
But he didn't push.
The Zhang family, someone would later think. The most powerful family in Huxai. Their influence spans generations. Their wealth fuels the economy. And Zhang Han—her uncle—is one of the most dangerous men in the world.
No one offends a Zhang.
Not even Jericho Jerkins.
---
Valerik spoke again.
"There was one more thing."
"What?"
"When I confronted the person who disrupted the Ferrano operations—the one who has been interfering with our supply lines—I noticed something."
"What did you notice?"
"His strength. It was beyond what I expected."
Valerik's eyes were distant.
"If I had to estimate—he's at the second stage. Maybe higher. His control over his energy—it was precise. Calculated."
"Impossible."
Jericho's voice was sharp.
"How could someone of that caliber be stationed in a place like that? A place like the Ashwick corridors?"
"I don't know, sir."
"Then find out."
---
Eugene's voice was quiet.
"The perpetrator behind Wilfred's kidnapping—one of them—the way they attacked. The precision. The control."
He paused.
"It reminded me of the Kaelos subclan."
The room went quiet.
Even Zhang Su's hands stopped moving.
Chiara's legs stopped swinging.
Valerik's pale eyes widened.
"The Kaelos," Jericho repeated.
His voice was low.
"If that's true—if they're involved—then everything changes."
"How so?"
"The Kaelos branch. They're always bringing trouble to us of the Erynder clan. They have the same government protection. The same contracts. But that doesn't mean they wouldn't stoop to—"
"They wouldn't."
Jericho's eyes narrowed.
"How do you know?"
"Because if they were involved, they wouldn't have left witnesses."
The room was silent.
---
Valerik's voice was thoughtful.
"There was someone else. A brat. He was with Viktor Volkov—the Artemis family observer. I suspect he might be behind the Ferrano laborers' sudden disappearance."
"Oh?"
Jericho leaned forward.
"Tell me more."
"He was... strange."
Valerik's brow furrowed.
"When I attacked him—when I used the Mirror Tap—he didn't die. He didn't even get hurt. He just... absorbed it. Redirected it. And then—"
"Then what?"
"Then he tried to take it for himself."
"Take it?"
"He tried to pull my energy into himself. It was like he was trying to drink it. Like he was trying to—"
"Impossible."
Jericho's voice was flat.
"Mortals can't do that. They can't absorb aetherflux conflux. They don't have the capacity."
"He did."
"Then he's not mortal."
The room went quiet.
Zhang Su's eyes had stopped moving.
"Now that," she said, "is interesting."
She leaned forward.
"A kid in some ghetto end place who can absorb aetherflux conflux? Who can redirect it? Who can try to take it for himself?"
Her lips curved.
"That's not normal. That's not even Sutran."
"What is it, then?"
"I don't know. But I want to find out."
---
Jericho's voice was tired.
"Something is fishy about this. The Kaelos—the engineer—the laborers—the brat."
He shook his head.
"I can't figure out what's going on. Are the Kaelos really messing with us? Or is there something else at play?"
No one answered.
No one had an answer.
---
Outside the conference room, the training program was ending.
Young men and women in dark uniforms filed through the corridors, their faces flushed, their breath coming in short, sharp gasps. They carried weapons—practice weapons, their edges dulled, their weight real.
One of them lingered near the exit.
She was young—eighteen, maybe nineteen. Her name was Lina. Her face was round, her eyes bright, her hair cropped short.
"Hey," she said. "Where did you go?"
The figure beside her didn't answer.
He was tall, his face sharp, his eyes hooded. He wore the same uniform as the others—dark, practical, unremarkable.
"I looked for you during the break," she said. "You weren't there."
"I was... busy."
"Doing what?"
"Just... thinking."
She smiled.
"Homesick?"
"Something like that."
He smiled back.
His eyes, though, were not smiling.
---
Elijah walked through the corridor.
His face was not his own. The Azaqor mask had shifted—younger, sharper, the face of a trainee who had been at the Foundry for months.
"Of all the daring acts you've done," Wonko's voice pressed against his skull, "this one tops the list. You're literally walking through the doorway of the people who want to kill you."
"Relax."
"Relax?"
"Relax. Let's see how this plays out."
Wonko was silent.
"I'm going to get us killed."
"Probably."
"But it's going to be fun."
Elijah's eyes moved across the corridor.
"One step at a time."
---